LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 
 
 /vj / c o 7 
 
 Chap. Copyright No. 
 
 Shelf.^.SJT^k 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
THE EPISTOLARY FLIRT 
 
THE 
 
 EPISTOLARY FLIRT 
 
 IN FOUR EXPOSURES 
 
 B V 
 
 ESMERIE AMORY 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 WAY &r WILLIAMS 
 
 1896 
 
 
 

 Copyright by 
 
 Way and Williams 
 
 1896 
 
PERSONS OF THE PIECE. 
 
 Ernestine . . A woman who writes verses* 
 Irwin . . . . A man who writes verse. 
 Philip . . . A man who writes poetry. 
 
THE EPISTOLARY FLIRT. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Place: The library of a city house. Present: 
 Ernestine and Philip. Time: Evening. 
 
 Philip. — How did it begin ? 
 
 Ernestine. — How does anything begin, 
 Philip ? First the blade, then the ear. And 
 the blade was such an innocent little green 
 thing. Who could have dreamed that the full 
 corn would be as heavy as this ? [She lifts a 
 large package of letters, and lets it drop to the 
 floor.] 
 
 P. [looking about at the scattered mis- 
 sives] . — All in your writing. 
 
 E. — All in my writing. 
 
 P. — What a pretty little field of corn it 
 
8 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 makes. I can almost hear the wind sigh 
 through the leaves. 
 
 E. — Oh, yes, the wind sighs through the 
 leaves — the wind sighs through the leaves. 
 
 P. — I '11 warrant that if you look within the 
 husk you '11 find as much milkiness and silki- 
 ness as — as Nature generally contrives to 
 create in such cases. [He laughs.] If I were 
 nearer to you I could read the address on the 
 envelopes. 
 
 E. — No one shall ever come near enough 
 for that. [Picking the letters up and hastily 
 sorting them.] Here you observe three piles, 
 containing respectively, four, twelve, and 
 thirty-seven letters. The first were dated year 
 before last, the second last year, the third this 
 year. 
 
 P. — I understand. Nature is never content 
 with mere geometrical progression. And the 
 
In Four Exposures 9 
 
 wind did not begin to sigh until there were 
 enough leaves for it to sigh through. Suppose 
 we start at year before last — before the sighing 
 began. 
 
 E. [hastily glancing through the contents of 
 the initial four] . — Oh, there is nothing in them 
 — nothing but gratitude and twaddle about my- 
 self. You know he believes that I am a poet. 
 
 P. — What a fool ! You are a much finer 
 thing : you are a woman. 
 
 E. — It does not seem very difficult to be a 
 woman. I know many fellow-beings who are 
 so distinguished. 
 
 P. — But the majority of them have miser- 
 ably failed in the business of womanliness, a 
 business in which you are a conspicuous suc- 
 cess — in your way. But let us to the course 
 of untrue love. Who was the first to write to 
 which ? 
 
io The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 E. — He wrote to me first. He happened 
 to see a little love lyric of mine in a news- 
 paper, and he wrote to say that he had marked 
 it and sent it to his sweetheart, with the com- 
 ment that it expressed his love for her more 
 perfectly than he could. That was all I heard 
 of him for two years. Then he wrote again, 
 praising a triolet of mine he had seen in an- 
 other paper. He said I had done something 
 never yet achieved — I had given a soul to a 
 triolet. 
 
 P. [vehemently] . — Never ! You '11 find 
 a box of figs growing on every thread of thistle- 
 down before you '11 find a soul in a triolet. 
 
 E. — I perceive that you have not yet read 
 my triolet. Then he asked me as a fellow- 
 writer to gratify his deep interest in my work 
 by sending him more of it. 
 
 P. — And then you thanked him prettily, 
 
In Four Exposures n 
 
 and mailed him the best of your best, and he 
 sent back superlatives. 
 
 E. — No, he did not deal in anything so 
 cheap. He praised with discrimination; he con- 
 demned unsparingly ; he roundly denounced 
 my careless workmanship, and extolled my 
 tenderness. 
 
 P. [musingly] . — Yes, your verse has ten- 
 derness — and that is something. Why, the 
 average hand -painted poem in a magazine 
 couldn't be tender. 
 
 E. — Still, a trifle too much of feeling is a 
 sickening thing. In my writing I never dare 
 do more than merely hint at emotion. 
 
 P. — In your epistolary writing ? 
 
 E. [faintly blushing] . — Oh, in my letters 
 I 'm afraid I show less respect for the artistic 
 need of self-restraint. 
 
 P. — I remember. I remember. 
 
i2 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 E. — But you know I am not grossly defi- 
 nite. I hint and hint and hint as delicately as 
 April hints of harvest. 
 
 P. — Ah, you have then become an adept 
 in these six years. Read me some confirma- 
 tory extracts. 
 
 E. — In this first letter — the first one that 
 he kept — I say, " I do not know how to thank 
 you enough for all your generous kindness. 
 To be so believed in would give voice and 
 wings to a mute inglorious clod." That was 
 after he had eulogized my rondeaus and char- 
 acterized my sonnets by an adjective that kept 
 me in the clouds for a week. After that he 
 scolded me for my unhappy-go-lucky way of 
 doing my work, and I began my next letter 
 with, " Do believe me when I assure you that 
 I shall revise and re-revise and re-re-revise. 
 The fierce critical light that beats about my 
 
In Four Exposures 13 
 
 pen and ink shall not abate until I hear you 
 exclaim, More matter with less art." 
 
 P. — And then ? 
 
 E. — Oh, then he told me he had called on 
 an aunt of mine who had showed him my pic- 
 ture, and that it conflicted a little with his men- 
 tal image of me. I was so flattered to know 
 that he had had a mental image of me that I 
 immediately called that an unfair advantage, 
 and said that I had a large mental picture gal- 
 lery of him, and that as it was very inconven- 
 ient to carry around such a collection of vary- 
 ing faces and forms, would he be so kind as to 
 let me see one of his photographs. I should 
 take very good care of it and return it promptly, 
 unless I happened to discover that he had a 
 spare one that I could keep. In that case I 
 said I should put it in a very pretty frame on 
 my writing table, and just below it should be 
 
14 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 these words copied from his last letter : u Your 
 willingness to leave your work unperfected 
 distresses me." What do you think happened 
 next ? 
 
 P. — He sent you his picture. 
 
 E. — He sent me five of his pictures, all 
 taken at different times, and all within a year. 
 " Vanity, thy name is man," was my first 
 thought, and my second thought was, " What 
 a beauty ! " Of course I could keep only one 
 of the photographs, and I chose the loveliest 
 of all. 
 
 P. — Oh, admirer of beauty in man ! 
 
 E. — I admire beauty in man, woman, child, 
 beast, bird, and serpent. Everyone ought to 
 be beautiful. Someone joggled Nature's elbow 
 when she was making my face, otherwise my 
 features would have been superbly regular. 
 You told me that, you know. 
 
In Four Exposures 15 
 
 P.— -You have a superb figure. There is n't 
 the faintest approach to a straight line in it. 
 Like your mind, it beautifully illustrates the 
 subtle forces of indirection. 
 
 E. — Oh, do n't, do n't say pretty things to 
 me, Philip. From your lips they are such a 
 pungent reminder of the flowers of yester-year. 
 
 P. — Did you tell your correspondent not to 
 say pretty things to you ? 
 
 E. — I warned him that some of his expres- 
 sions ministered to my love of the beautiful. 
 
 P. — And did you resist the temptation to 
 say pretty things to him ? 
 
 E. — Resist the irresistible ! I found a be- 
 lated November flower and pressed it and sent 
 it to him. After his next letter, I say, " Your 
 letter is a rich return for that fragile scrap of 
 withered Novemberishness. The inspiration 
 and encouragement that I am growing to de- 
 
1 6 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 pend on so much come in so graceful a form 
 that the manner is worth almost more than the 
 matter." And next he hurt my feelings. I 
 sent him what /thought was a humorous piece, 
 and after criticising it severely he hoped that I 
 would not feel either hurt, offended, or dis- 
 heartened by his comments. Here is my 
 response: "I was a little hurt ('unnatural' 
 and c unworthy in every way ' are c words that 
 burn' in a sense that you could not have 
 intended), but I was n't the least bit offended, 
 and I am never disheartened." You see I am 
 reading you these bits from my letters to show 
 you the manner in which I revealed myself to 
 him. 
 
 P. — I understand. Innocent vision ! He 
 was heart-broken over your hurt ? 
 
 E. — He was a picturesque ruin. I could 
 almost see the moon rising over him. 
 
In Four Exposures 17 
 
 P. — Ah ! It 's not wise to gaze at that 
 species of ruin by moonlight. 
 
 E. — Naturally I enjoyed his remorse — the 
 real part, the exaggerated part, and the simu- 
 lated part. I can 't help liking a man who 
 takes the trouble even to simulate an emotion 
 for my sake. 
 
 P. — Can 't help liking him ? 
 
 E. — Can 't help liking him. [Sighing.] 
 Oh, that was the period of sweet and innocent 
 liking, before the miserable ecstasy began. 
 [He laughs.] Do n't laugh, Philip. 
 
 P. — Certainly the miserable ecstasy could 
 be no laughing matter ; but is n't it extraordi- 
 nary, Ernestine, the way that dread disease 
 will pursue your flying footsteps ? There 's an 
 awful fatality about it. Do your very utmost 
 to escape, and you simply can 't. 
 
1 8 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 E. [frowning]. — That isn't a very nice 
 speech. 
 
 P. [soothingly]. — Oh, well, I was only 
 joking when I made it. 
 
 E. [smiling]. — If your insults were not so 
 artistic I would never forgive you for them. 
 
 P. — As an artist I am not worthy to be 
 mentioned with you. But what was the next 
 step in the primrose path ? 
 
 E. — Oh, then he fell ill, and I petted him 
 a little. I said I would try not to worry about 
 him, but that when his picture was standing 
 directly before me several hours a day I 
 could n't help seeing it, and to see it was to 
 think about him, and to think about him was 
 to be a little anxious — all that sort of thing, 
 you know. In my next letter I say [reading]: 
 " No, I cannot bring myself to send you one 
 of my just-finished photographs. It looks so 
 
In Four Exposures 19 
 
 unhappy. And I am never unhappy — except 
 when I have to have a picture taken. But I 
 shall certainly frown as blackly at you as this 
 picture does at me if you write me another 
 letter in your present wretched state of health 
 — no matter how short it is, nor how glad I 
 may be to get it." Are n't you tired of all this ? 
 
 P. — No, no. I came here to-night to listen 
 to your writings, and to criticise them. 
 
 E. — But not my prose writings. Here is 
 endless prattle about my verses and what he 
 thinks of them, and his poetry, and what I think 
 of it, the walks I take, the books I read, the 
 people I meet, and — oh, yes, here is something 
 more about his picture [reading]: "I brought 
 back an armful of blossoming boughs from my 
 walk yesterday, and wreathed a spray of wistaria 
 vine about your picture. Only a few of its buds 
 had opened, but in the night they all unfolded, 
 
20 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 and it dropped its weight of bloom down to 
 your pictured shoulder. Was n't that a pretty 
 achievement ? And 't is my faith that every 
 flower enjoys the — the influence it breathes. 
 Do you still insist on my photograph ? Con- 
 sider ! Friendship is a delicate thing. Why 
 should I imperil ours by sending you the pic- 
 ture of a desperate creature, brought to bay by 
 a photographer ? How can I confront a soul- 
 less camera with my most soulful expression ? 
 How can I look at a speck on a wall as though 
 it was the only speck on a wall that I ever 
 loved ? " 
 
 P. — What pretty little unconscious move- 
 ments a moth can make in a resolute search 
 after fire. 
 
 E. — About this time he told me he loved 
 my letters, and that seemed a little presump- 
 tious, so I became a trifle cool ; and then he 
 
In Four Exposures 21 
 
 was very busy working on his novel, and I 
 did n't hear from him for weeks, and missed 
 him dreadfully. In explanation of his silence 
 he said that the heroine of his novel was a 
 somewhat idealized version of the girl he was 
 engaged to marry, and that as long as my let- 
 ters were distracting his mind, this central 
 figure in his fiction showed a tendency to ex- 
 press herself in my turn of phrase, which was 
 utterly out of keeping with her subdued and 
 lamb-like character. I suspect his inamorata 
 must have been decidedly of the namby-pamby 
 order, or she could never have suggested a 
 heroine of that tiresome nature. However, I 
 constructed a reply in which wounded feeling, 
 gentle dignity, and a certain lady-like misgiving 
 each played a delicate part. I suggested that 
 our correspondence should cease, or at least be 
 suspended till the novel was finished. He flung 
 
22 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 back impetuous sheets, declaring that he could 
 not live without my letters. I assured him 
 with entire equanimity that I was very certain 
 he could. Then he plead with me. He said 
 his novel sickened him to the point of tears ; 
 he hoped I would never mention it again. 
 Poor fellow ! he had reached the spot that 
 every writer sooner or later is forced to cross 
 — that deadly place where the heavens are 
 brass, and the brain a broken ink-bottle, with 
 only a thick, black smear where the fount of 
 thought was wont to begin its easy flow. In 
 a word, he had lost self-confidence. The girl 
 of his choice was very kind to him. She 
 thought kindness was what he needed. I knew 
 better. I knew he needed to be flattered up 
 to the skies. 
 
 P. — Trust you for a correct diagnosis ! 
 
 E. — I quoted bits from his letters, and 
 
In Four Exposures 23 
 
 praised their style and finish. I had previously 
 extolled the few poems of his he had sent me, 
 so I had to find some new adjectives for them. 
 Then in desperation I recurred to his picture. 
 I said it was absurdly young and beautiful, and 
 that I knew it was vain, because it looked so 
 woe-begone when I neglected to dust it, and I 
 hinted that it was dusted pretty frequently, and 
 with my best lace handkerchief at that. I 
 always spoke of it as " the pretty child," and 
 altogether I must have told him a lot of stuff 
 about it. 
 
 P. — What was your object in working his 
 picture so hard ? 
 
 E. [dropping her chin thoughtfully into her 
 upturned palms]. — Oh, the pleasure of warm- 
 ing one's wings, I suppose, and the high moral 
 joy of teaching fire that all moths do n't get 
 burnt. My motive, I imagine, was one-fourth 
 
24 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 flirtatiousness, one-fourth a wish to cheer him 
 up, one-fourth curiosity to see how far he 
 would go and one-fourth a desire to teach him 
 the valuable lesson that it 's wrong for a man 
 to flirt. 
 
 P. — Each of you, then, really believed that 
 the other was — hm. That is very interesting. 
 And in return for this valuable lesson he prob- 
 ably taught you the equally valuable lesson 
 that it 's wrong for a woman to flirt. 
 
 E. — Yes, he did; and I needed it. He 
 wrote me a letter that scared me a little, but I 
 was reckless. I could n't help going on in the 
 same strain. 
 
 P. — Poor moth ! Poor moth ! 
 
 E. — Oh, put your moth in the plural num- 
 ber. There were two of us, you know. Next 
 he wrote me a passionate love-letter that hor- 
 
In Four Exposures 25 
 
 rifled me. But on the last page his mood 
 changed. He hinted ever so delicately that 
 we were reeling, but that it was not yet too 
 late to clear the mists and the delirium from 
 our eyes — we had not yet spoken the words 
 that kill. He begged me to help him to be 
 strong — to keep him from becoming the man 
 that I myself would despise. His letter was 
 an impassioned confession of love, and an 
 agonized entreaty to be delivered from it. Pic- 
 ture the state of mind I was in. Inevitably 
 my conscience was sore, my vanity exultant, 
 my self-respect humiliated, my heart inexpres- 
 sibly stirred and saddened, my nobler nature 
 wakened into vivid life ! That word " reel- 
 ing" really stung. It pierced my leaden con- 
 sciousness that the drama was to close. He 
 thought I was " reeling," did he ? Very well ; 
 
26 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 I would take steps to show him that my head 
 was perfectly clear. This is what I wrote 
 [reading] : 
 
 "Your last letter makes me exultantly happy. 
 You are a good man — a good man, and a noble one. 
 You stood the test magnificently. You knonv I did 
 not deliberately set myself to test you — it was abso- 
 lutely unintended — but it ivas a test nevertheless, and 
 you came out of it like pure gold. You splendid fel- 
 low ! You don't know how glad I am. Because if 
 you had been the least little bit cheap it would have 
 hurt my ideal of you. And now the ideal is n't a par- 
 ticle hurt — it's glorified. 
 
 " It seems to me now that I 've been a little merci- 
 less with you, and I've no defence except my love of 
 play — of playing on an instrument as delicate and rare 
 as the one I found to my hand. I wouldn't have 
 cared to play with anything commoner. I can't plead 
 ignorance, because, some weeks ago, I heard your 
 voice through the air asking me if I knew what I was 
 doing, and I answered back that I did know a little — 
 and that I was shutting my eyes tightly to keep them 
 from knowing more. And of course that is no excuse. 
 You behold, then, a woman who confesses that she has 
 
In Four Exposures 27 
 
 led you on (though she did not mean you to go any 
 further or fare any worse than you have done), and who 
 is not altogether sorry, because it proved, what she sus- 
 pected all along, that you are one of the very best of 
 men. I honor you the more because the victory was 
 not easy for you. If you had not been so sensitive and 
 impressible, with such a capacity for enthusiasm and 
 eagerness and sentiment and tenderness, I wouldn't 
 have wanted to play. It was my consciousness of 
 those qualities in you that made the pastime so pretty 
 — and so cruel. Here is an excellent opportunity for 
 me to despise myself, but — see how heroically I re- 
 sist temptation ! — I am not going to do so. It would 
 only make us both miserable. 
 
 " Do you know what will happen when we meet ? 
 / know exactly. I shall be so overjoyed that all shy- 
 ness and self-consciousness will be drowned in glad- 
 ness. Perhaps my hands will shake a little, but that 
 will pass in a moment or two. Then the thousands 
 of things we want to say to each other will begin to 
 crowd up, and we shall talk and talk and talk. In a 
 few minutes we shall feel like disembodied intelligences. 
 It will seem, to me at least, that every drop of blood 
 in my body is in my head, and close to boiling point. 
 I shall live more in an hour than I usually do in a 
 
28 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 year. I shall be perfectly happy. And if we talk for 
 an hour it will take me at least four hours afterwards 
 to realize that I have a body as well as a brain." 
 
 P. — Very well done — for a moth. 
 
 E. — I was crying my eyes out all the time 
 I wrote it, but not a drop fell on the paper. It 
 does n't do for tonics to be watery, and I meant 
 that letter to be a tonic. He wrote back by 
 the next mail, saying that I was no more a 
 professional heart-tester than he was a pro- 
 fessional pork-packer, and inquiring why I lied. 
 I give it rather more plainly than he did, you 
 know. That made me intensely angry, and 
 equally determined to prove that I had told the 
 truth. I mailed him a cold note, asking that 
 my letters should be returned to me. He sent 
 them back, and with them an impassioned ap- 
 peal for my friendship, and I could not respond 
 to that half-heartedly. Here is the last page 
 of my reply [reading] : " I am sorry my last 
 
In Four Exposures 29 
 
 letter was cold. I let my hurt pride write it 
 for me. But now that is all over. And I am 
 coming back to you with all my heart, and 
 looking straight in your eyes, and saying, c Please 
 don't be troubled another moment, because we 
 are going to be the truest and dearest friends 
 forever and ever, and we are going to make 
 our friendship the most beautiful and satisfying 
 thing imaginable.' " 
 
 P. — And that is where you stand at present I 
 
 E. — Yes. And the important point on which 
 I want your advice is this : The aunt of mine 
 he spoke of has invited me to visit her. If I 
 do he may possibly call on me. Would it be 
 wise for me to accept the invitation ? 
 
 P. — Oh, yes — yes ! Everything that a 
 moth does is wise. 
 
 E. — But we are on the solid basis of pure 
 friendship. 
 
30 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 P. — No doubt. But let me tell you some- 
 thing. The soul that sinneth, it shall die \ that 
 is a heavy punishment. The soul that play- 
 eth at sin, it shall not be able to refrain from 
 playing at sin; that is the insupportable penalty. 
 
 E. [reddening] . — Bah ! 
 
 P. — Good-by, dear innocent child. Your 
 people are all abed, and I must steal out like 
 a thief in the night. I am glad of your confi- 
 dence, but — do n't let him talk to you — not 
 just yet. 
 
In Four Exposures 31 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Place : The parlor of a cottage on the lake 
 shore. Irwin sits waiting. He looks up 
 as a rustle is heard on the stairs. Enter 
 Ernestine. 
 
 Ernestine. — Oh, I am so glad to see you. 
 
 Irwin [with soft deliberation], — This is 
 you — this is really Ernestine ? 
 
 E. — Yes. [She draws her hands from his 
 clasp, and her eyes from his long gaze.] 
 
 /. — Of course I took the first train for the 
 beach as soon as I heard of your arrival. I 
 know it 's unpardonably early. 
 
 E. — My aunt will be sorry to miss seeing 
 you. She has just gone out. 
 
 /. — I am very sorry to miss your aunt. I 
 
32 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 lay awake nearly all last night thinking of her* 
 
 E. [bridling] . — My aunt is a very sweet 
 woman, and a very beautiful woman. [Sigh- 
 ing] I — [stops as if confused] . 
 
 /. — You have a — do let me say it — a 
 beautiful figure [she blushes] and [with en- 
 thusiasm] the very loveliest color in the world. 
 
 E. — May heaven preserve my figure and 
 my color ! 
 
 /. — Heaven will be sure to hear that prayer. 
 
 .E.— Why. 
 
 /. [with extended hands] . — Because it is so 
 near to you. [In the lowest audible tone] 
 Ernestine — Ernestine — 
 
 E. [as steps are heard without]. — Is that 
 the butcher ? And Auntie told him not to 
 come to the front door. Oh, no, it 's the gro- 
 cer's boy. He 's going around to the back. 
 
In Four Exposures 33 
 
 /. [turning to the window]. — Any informa- 
 tion regarding butchers and grocers gratefully 
 received. [After a pause.] It is like dew 
 upon the parched ground. 
 
 E. — Let us go down to the lake. It is too 
 perfect a day to waste between four dull walls. 
 
 /. — There is a hammock out here under 
 an apple-tree, with a big chair, and a book be- 
 side it. Let us go to the book of verse beneath 
 a spreading bough. 
 
 E. — Very well. 
 
 /. — Or — I do n't know. I have a ham- 
 mock at home, but no lake. 
 
 E. [impatiently]. — Which shall it be ? 
 
 /. [leaning luxuriously back in his chair]. — 
 My dearest friend, the secret of happiness is to 
 do nothing — except muse upon the delightful 
 things that one might do. 
 
34 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 E. — Ugh ! [She leaves the room, and re- 
 turns equipped with hat, gloves, and sun um- 
 brella]. Are you coming ? 
 
 /. [as they leave the house]. — I am glad 
 you made me come. I did n't know how 
 heavenly it was out of doors. 
 
 E. — Has the weather changed so much in 
 fifteen minutes ? 
 
 L — Yes. You are with me now. [Ten- 
 derly] Ernestine, we are together. Do you 
 realize it ? 
 
 E. [dreamily]. — No, I can 't realize it, but 
 it 's the loveliest thing in the world, is n't it, 
 Irwin — our relation to each other ? It makes 
 me so sorry for that gay party of people on the 
 beach. 
 
 /.—Why ? 
 
 E. — Because all their friendships are pro- 
 saic. Ours is the only poetic friendship. But 
 
In Four Exposures 35 
 
 they would n't understand it if we explained it 
 to them. 
 
 /. — No -, but we do n't want them to un- 
 derstand. I am satisfied to know that every 
 leaf and blade of grass is glad for us, and every 
 wave is tranced in joy. Those enraptured 
 woods beyond the lake understand us perfectly. 
 Let us take a boat and go to them. [After 
 they have pushed away from the shore.] 
 There ! now I can see you in a wide unpeo- 
 pled frame of lake and sky. A person in a 
 boat has the peculiar distinction of a passage 
 torn from its context. 
 
 E. — I take all nature for my context. I 
 belong out of doors. 
 
 /. — So do I. A primrose by the river's 
 brim a yellow primrose is to me, and it is a 
 thousand times more. 
 
 E. — I grew up in the heart of the country* 
 
36 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 Think what a heavenly delight it was to be 
 companioned from my earliest days by things 
 that are not egotists, nor nervous, nor restless, 
 nor unsatisfied, nor conscious of their bigness 
 nor of their littleness, nor affected, nor garru- 
 lous, nor flurried. [Looking around.] Are n't 
 we running into shore ? 
 
 /. — I want to get a nearer view of that 
 curious tree. Do you know its name ? 
 
 E. — I know it by sight, but I do n't know 
 its name. Names are an endless bother. I 
 know very few of them. 
 
 /. — You do n't know the names of things 
 you have grown up among ? 
 
 E. — No ; I am intimately attached to the 
 bones in my wrist, for example, but I do n't 
 know their names. My appreciations of na- 
 ture are infantile. I am an infant smiling in 
 the sun, and with no language but a smile. 
 
In Four Exposures 37 
 
 /. — Happy baby ! It is permissible to 
 caress babies. 
 
 E. — But not possible, thank goodness — 
 in a boat. 
 
 /. — We are going into shore now. 
 
 E. — Why, no we 're not. Those are not 
 the enraptured woods you spoke of. 
 
 /. — No ; these are merely ecstatic. You 
 are right. 
 
 E. [as the boat is pushed up the beach] . — 
 I refuse to leave my seat. 
 
 /. — Ernestine, can 't you trust me ? Do 
 you think I would give you even a glance of 
 — of an unchivalrous kind ? 
 
 E. — No, I should wrong you to doubt. 
 [Going with him into the wood.] It is cooler 
 in here, and you are flushed with that hard 
 work in the hot sun. [They sit down with 
 their backs against adjacent trees.] 
 
38 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 /. — Shall we talk or be silent ? 
 
 E. — I do n't know. We are happy when 
 we do n't speak, and not exactly unhappy when 
 we do. 
 
 /.—Tell me about the " Pretty Child." Is 
 he good, or has he had to have his face turned 
 to the wall again ? 
 
 E. — How silly that sounds ! 
 
 /. — That time you took him into the woods 
 with you — carrying him under your cape, so 
 that anyone you might meet would not know 
 there were two of you — what a lovely time 
 you had ! He leaned up against a tree and 
 looked at you while you read in your book, 
 and then a little wind roused him from his 
 reverie and he flew off with the flying leaves, 
 and when you rushed round to intercept his 
 flight that same naughty wind flung him into 
 your arms. 
 
In Four Exposures 39 
 
 E. [with mortification]. — Oh, I never said 
 that last part. Never ! Never ! 
 
 /. — But that was what you foresaw must 
 happen. 
 
 E. — What nonsense ! If you are going to 
 quote from those absurd letters of mine I shall 
 go back to the boat, 
 
 /. — Never speak a word against those let- 
 ters. No woman on earth ever wrote such 
 letters to any man. No such appeals to the 
 heart and imagination were ever made before, 
 or will ever be made again. But why did you 
 not return me mine ? 
 
 E. — Your letters seem ever so much more 
 intimately my own than mine seem. 
 
 /. — How near we came to each other, dar- 
 ling Ernestine. 
 
 E. — Yes ; the only way for souls to get near 
 
40 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 is for them to be far apart. But you must n't 
 call me darling, Irwin. 
 
 /. — I did n't. I called you darling Ernestine. 
 
 £. [coloring] . — You must n't. 
 
 /. [entreatingly] . — Why not ? 
 
 E. [sadly] . — It 's wrong. 
 
 /. [passionately] . — No ; it 's right. 
 
 E. [looking down] . — And I do n't like it. 
 
 /. — Yes, you do; you like it better than 
 anything else. 
 
 E. [rising to her feet] . — I am going back 
 to the boat now. 
 
 J. — No, you are not. You are going to 
 stay here forever with me. 
 
 E. — Dear Irwin, do be reasonable. 
 
 /. — It 's highly wrong for you to call me 
 " dear." Besides, it 's improper, and I do n't 
 like it. [Suddenly growing wistful.] Am I 
 really dear to you ? 
 
In Four Exposures 41 
 
 E. — Ah, do you need to ask ? 
 
 /. — You treat me as if I were an ordinary 
 acquaintance. 
 
 E. [looking at him with melting eyes] . — 
 Just a mere ordinary acquaintance — that's all 
 you are. 
 
 /. [with his eyes on hers] . — Darling, we 
 are all alone. 
 
 E. [with mock fervor, as a picnic party 
 comes in sight] . — Darling, we are not all 
 alone. 
 
 /. [after they are again in the boat] . — It 
 strikes me you look inexplicably happy. 
 
 E. — A woman's happiness consists in the 
 kisses she does n't quite receive. 
 
 /. — Well, a man's happiness does not con- 
 sist in giving the kisses that are not quite re- 
 ceived. You might think of me. 
 
 E. — I do think of you part of the time. 
 
42 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 /. — All of the time ? 
 
 E. — Oh dear, no, Irwin. Part of my sleep 
 is dreamless. 
 
 /. — And you think of me all the rest of the 
 time ? 
 
 E. — Not exactly think — that implies a 
 voluntary action. But nearly every minute of 
 my days and dreams has a sort of Irwinian 
 flavor. 
 
 /. — Dear, I am so happy. 
 
 E. — So am I. 
 
 /. — But all the same I should like to throttle 
 those picnicers. Why should mere picnicers 
 go to the woods ? 
 
 E. — Why, indeed ? They have nothing to 
 conceal. That is the beauty of prosaic friend- 
 ship — it can be known and read of all men. 
 
 /. — Do you like to say things that hurt me ? 
 
 E. — Oh, my dearest friend, your face is all 
 
In Four Exposures 43 
 
 drawn with pain. What have I said ? What 
 are you thinking of? 
 
 /. — Dearestfriend — ah ! I am thinking of 
 the girl I love — the girl to whom I have been 
 engaged for five years. 
 
 E. — Do tell me about her. Is n't that her 
 picture — that cardboard showing its edge from 
 your pocket ? Please let me see it. [As he 
 reluctantly produces it.] Oh, Irwin, she is 
 beautiful. Such sweetness, such candor, such 
 a spring in the face. 
 
 /. — What do you mean by a spring in the 
 face ? 
 
 E. — Do n't you know ? Why, elasticity 
 — life — lift — spring — the thing that makes 
 a tree different from a poem about a tree. 
 
 /. [resolutely] . — She is to my life what the 
 sky is to the earth — the heavenly part — the 
 light, the warmth, the wonder, and the beauty. 
 
44 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 [He replaces the picture in his breast, and 
 folds his arms tenderly across it.] 
 
 E. — Is n't it time we were going home ? 
 
 I. — There are tears in your eyes, my dearest 
 — friend. 
 
 E. — I am not your dearest. 
 
 I. — I meant to say " my dear." 
 
 E. — That is what the drummers say to the 
 pretty waiter girls. 
 
 L — Then I will say, u my dear child." 
 
 E. — That is what preachers call their wives. 
 
 7. — Will you let me call you " dear " with- 
 out the drummerisque prefix ? 
 
 E. — That is better. Still, it suggests the 
 possibility of being made to feel cheap. 
 
 L — Oh, Ernestine, I can 't bear to see the 
 happy light go out of your eyes. What is it 
 that troubles you, sweet ? 
 
In Four Exposures 45 
 
 E. — Only the pain that comes to those 
 who feel too much. 
 
 7. — I know what it is — I know. It is 
 cruelly hard. [His own eyes moisten.] 
 
 E. [bravely smiling] . — Not so hard as 
 though we had nothing but — [pauses] ah — 
 feeling — to comfort us. Why, we have unity 
 of tastes and pursuits and interests, the mate- 
 rials out of which the tenderest and most exalted 
 friendships are made. It would be shameful 
 to degrade all the lovely possibilities of our 
 intimacy to the level of a vulgar flirtation. 
 
 L — You are a noble girl, and every syllable 
 you say is truth. Here we are at our beloved 
 woods again. Do n't you enjoy them ? 
 
 E. — Yes, I enjoy them, and I enjoy your 
 enjoyment of them, and I enjoy their enjoy- 
 ment of themselves. There is an effect I 
 
46 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 have often tried to get in my verses, and always 
 failed. Do you see that crumbling log lying 
 in moss and ferns among its living brothers ? 
 Does n't that suggest to you the deepest depth 
 of repose ? 
 
 /. — I see what you mean. The living tree 
 has restfulness, the fallen tree more restful- 
 ness, the rotting log has reached the superla- 
 tive of quiescence. 
 
 E. — You know my thought before I utter it. 
 
 /. — Do you think a mossy log is more re- 
 poseful than a grave ? 
 
 E. — Oh, yes ; a grave never was alive — 
 it is only the covering of what once lived. 
 
 /.— Oh, dear! 
 
 E. — Are you grieving over the fact that 
 you are mortal ? 
 
 /. — No ; I am repining at the discovery that 
 the building at your left is not a hotel. It is 
 
In Four Exposures 47 
 
 only a grocery. Do you suppose I could get 
 anything eatable there ? 
 
 E. — Dried herring and sauerkraut. 
 
 /. — Ye gods ! Can two souls attuned to 
 poesy subsist on herring and sauerkraut ? 
 
 E. — Do take me straight home, Irwin, and 
 I '11 get you a charming little supper. 
 
 /. — No, I want to stay on the lake till the 
 stars come out. I want to see your face by 
 moonlight. [He springs to the dock, and 
 returns soon after with numerous parcels.] Do 
 you like to eat out of doors ? 
 
 E. [guardedly]. — It depends largely on 
 what there is to eat. 
 
 /. — When we get out of sight of shore I '11 
 show you. 
 
 E. [investigating the packages]. — Crackers, 
 of course, canned chicken and olives, some 
 luscious ripe plums and bananas, and — what 9 s 
 
48 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 this ? Ice cream ! Oh, you ridiculous boy ! 
 
 I. [laying down his oars] . — There ! I 
 did n't want to show to all the world around 
 how two poets can eat when they do n't have 
 to keep up appearances. I '11 open that can. 
 This chicken is the " piece of resistance," as 
 the English boy said when he was translating 
 a French description of a dinner table. 
 
 E. — What absurdity are you saying ? Oh, 
 Irwin, how sweet it is — this outdoor privacy, 
 and the poetry of Nature redeeming even the 
 prose of eating, and your adorable face so near 
 — so near. 
 
 /. [putting his face nearer] . — Darling ! 
 
 E. [drawing back]. — And a newspaper 
 tablecloth that will fly up at the corners. 
 
 I. — These bananas would be better with a 
 rum sauce. Do take another. It does me 
 
In Four Exposures 49 
 
 good to see you eat. But do you know, I 
 fancied that you always had a delicate appetite. 
 
 E. — How strange ! And I fancied that 
 you always made tactful remarks. 
 
 /. — Have some more ice cream, Pussy ? 
 
 E.— Don't call me by that horrid name! 
 
 /. — But you are a Pussy ; you 've just 
 shown me the claws under the velvet. 
 
 E, [going into tears] . — If you knew how 
 I hated, hated, hated cats, you could never, 
 never — [she sobs] . 
 
 /. — My own darling — friend. I am so 
 sorry. You once told me so in a letter, and 
 I was a fool to forget it. Do n't try to forgive 
 me. I'm an unfeeling boor. [After a sad 
 pause.] Would you mind telling me your 
 favorite animal ? 
 
 E. [sobbing quietly] . — The pore — pore — 
 
 porcupine. 
 4 
 
50 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 /. [tragically] . — Ah, I see you have not 
 forgiven me. 
 
 E. [with a hysterical shriek of laughter], — 
 Well, you asked me not to forgive you. And 
 besides I couldn't say chipmunk, though it 
 really is my favorite, because then you 'd think 
 you 'd have to call me that. " Come here, 
 little Chip ! Pretty little Chip ! Chippie want 
 an olive ? " [Goes off into a fit of uncon- 
 trollable laughter.] 
 
 /. — Yes, I think on the whole you have 
 rather more to laugh at than you had to cry for. 
 
 E. — Oh, Irwin, you must think me a fright- 
 ful lunatic, but there 's a reason for every bit 
 of my lunacy. You see every moment of the 
 sweetness and preciousness of this day is pene- 
 trated by the sharp sense that it 's the last time 
 — the last time. We must not meet again, 
 and our letters will never be quite the same as 
 
In Four Exposures 51 
 
 they were before we met. Then when you 
 hinted that about my appetite, it hurt me so to 
 think that anything not quite delicate was asso- 
 ciated with me in your mind, and at the mention 
 of that most loathed of all the animal creation I 
 could n't endure any more. But it isn't really 
 like me to be so foolish and hysterical, Irwin. 
 What makes me so silly when I am with you ? 
 
 /. — You are not silly, darling. You are 
 admirably clear-headed and candid. See, the 
 stars are coming out. Let us pack the rest of 
 this stuff away, and give our last hour together 
 to heavenly thoughts and heavenly happiness. 
 Oh, what an accursed thing a boat is ! No- 
 body can do anything he wants to do in it. 
 
 E. — What is it you want ? 
 
 /. — I want to lie down with my head on a 
 fold of your gown, and look up at the near 
 lights in your face, and the far lights in the sky. 
 
52 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 E. — How sweet ! But I 'm glad you can't. 
 
 /. — I want to drink to the last drop the 
 delicious cup of your nearness and dearness. 
 
 E. — Darling boy ! But I 'm so glad you 
 can 't. 
 
 /. — I wish that the joy of every lovely 
 thing that nature has shown us, and every 
 exquisite emotion that we have shown each 
 other, should blend in our embrace. I want — 
 
 E. — Oh, good evening, Miss Tarville. 
 How do you do, Mr. Sydenham. Yes, the 
 water is delightfully smooth to-night. [In a 
 lower tone, as the other boat sweeps past.] 
 No, I do n't think they heard you, though that 
 Tarville girl did have on her fathomless expres- 
 sion. But do be careful. 
 
 /. — I do n't want to be careful. I want to 
 be reckless. Oh, the lovely moon in the sky, 
 and the other moon in the lake. How happy 
 
In Four Exposures 53 
 
 they are ! Ernestine, Ernestine, the world is 
 packed fuW^full of bliss. 
 
 E. — Irwin, that rum you did n't get on 
 your bananas has gone to your head. 
 
 I. — Yes, the rum I did n't get, and the 
 kisses I did n't get, and the caresses that never 
 reached me — they 've all gone to my head, 
 and to my heart. 
 
 E. — Those people are coming this way 
 again. I daresay they do n't want to miss any 
 of your conversation. 
 
 /. — Then I am going to take you home. 
 
 E. — Yes, do ; I am growing chilly. [He 
 pulls silently to the beach. Arrived at the 
 house, she takes a key from her bag and un- 
 locks the door.] 
 
 /. — Why, is everyone out ? 
 
 E. — Auntie told me she would n't be back 
 till late, and I gave the girl a holiday. 
 
54 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 /. [entering with her], — Then we might 
 have been here, blessedly alone, all this after- 
 noon ! 
 
 E. [opening her eyes wide] . — Here! Here! 
 And lost the skies, and the woods, and the 
 water, and the divine wind ! 
 
 /. — Ah, sweet, no. We should have had 
 Love's deep, deep skies, and Love's flowering 
 or flaming woods, and Love's intoxicating 
 winds and delicious waves. Do you love me, 
 Ernestine ? 
 
 E. — Yes, Irwin. 
 
 /. — Then come. [She goes to his arms 
 and lays her cheek on his shoulder.] This is 
 what I have waited for all day — all my life. 
 Are you happy, darling ? 
 
 E. — Not quite, dearest. 
 
 /. — But why — why are n't you happy ? 
 
 E. — You hold me too tightly — and you 
 
In Four Exposures 55 
 
 hurt — hurt me, Irwin. That picture hurts me. 
 
 7". — The picture ? [He draws the photo- 
 graph of his sweetheart from his breast pocket 
 and sits down in stupefaction, gazing at it.] 
 
 E. [still standing]. — What is it, Irwin? 
 Your face breaks my heart. Oh, what is it, 
 darling ? 
 
 /. [groaning] . — I am dishonored, stained, 
 ruined ! I can never look my love in the pure 
 eyes again. [He kisses the picture passion- 
 ately, and the tears start to his eyes.] Oh, let 
 me go ! let me go ! 
 
 E. [very distinctly]. — I am not preventing 
 you. 
 
 L [taking her hand austerely] . — Good-by. 
 You will tell your aunt from me how sorry I 
 am not to see her. [Exit Irwin. 
 
56 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Place : The parlor of the lake cottage. Time : 
 Evening. Irwin sits waiting as before. 
 Enter Ernestine. She is pale and cold. 
 He springs to his feet, and advances eagerly. 
 
 Irwin. — Oh, Ernestine, I thought you 
 would refuse to see me. I do n't deserve to 
 have you give me another glance after my 
 brutality in leaving you the way I did a week 
 ago. My heart has been aching horribly ever 
 since. I am so sorry — so despairingly sorry. 
 I have not the slightest claim on your forgive- 
 ness. 
 
 Ernestine. — I quite agree with you. 
 
 /. — But I could n't endure to part from you 
 
In Four Exposures 57 
 
 in that way forever. [ His lip trembles.] 
 Won't you say you forgive me, Ernestine ? 
 
 E. — Yes, I can say I forgive you. Some- 
 times I do n't mean what I say. 
 
 /. — And sometimes you feel a certain pleas- 
 ure in saying things that wound me. 
 
 E. — Yes ; that is precisely what I feel. 
 
 /. — I did not think you could be so petty ^ 
 
 E. — It seems that I can be. 
 
 /. — It is n't like you. It is utterly unworthy 
 of you. 
 
 E. — Just as you please about that. 
 
 /. [after silently gazing at her]. — I don't 
 understand it, Ernestine. You are not really 
 the frozen creature that for some reason you 
 are pretending to be. 
 
 E. — I will explain. When the tree is stark 
 and cold the frost cannot hurt it. When it is 
 warm with blossoms a lesser frost will turn it 
 
58 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 pitiable. When did Summer ever woo blighted 
 blossoms into fresh bloom ? 
 
 /. [sadly]. — Never. 
 
 £. [stonily]. — There is no ripening time 
 for our affection. There is nothing after our 
 blossom-time but death. 
 
 /. — But, Ernestine, even the sharpest spring 
 frost leaves a few blossoms untouched — the 
 petals of friendship hiding under the branches 
 farthest from sun and chill. 
 
 E. — What do you want of my friendship ? 
 
 /. [bitterly]. — Merely the assumption of 
 civility accorded to an entire stranger. After 
 all, what unpardonable crime was it that I com- 
 mitted ? I was suddenly conscience-stricken. 
 Even the best of men are liable to be that. 
 I tore myself from the brink of ruin. Even 
 an angel in human form might do that. 
 
In Four Exposures 59 
 
 E. [with fire flashing through the frost]. — ■■ 
 There was no brink in the case. To suggest 
 it is to suggest that I am not a good woman. 
 How do you dare to say that ? 
 
 /. — Ernestine, for heaven's sake, not so 
 loud. 
 
 E. — Oh, my aunt is in bed with a villain- 
 ous headache. Destiny has kindly arranged 
 that I can be as loud or as low as I please. 
 Brink me no brinks. 
 
 /. — I will never use that word again. 
 
 E. — It always reminds me of a shelving 
 rock edging a pit. The poor fools above it 
 are freezing to death, and despising the poor 
 fools below. The poor fools below are burn- 
 ing to death, and despising the poor fools above. 
 There is a picture of life for you ! [Turning 
 to the piano, and singing to her own accom- 
 paniment.] 
 
6o The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 Oh, the world is petrified 
 Hard with malice, scorn, and pride ; 
 Let your fallen brother slide — 
 While the days are going by. 
 
 /. — It gives me a little shock to hear you 
 use slang. 
 
 E. — It would give you a larger shock to 
 hear me use profanity. One completely over- 
 looked advantage which a religious training be- 
 stows upon its possessor is the fine flavor it 
 gives to such a poor overworked drudge of a 
 word as damn. I once heard a minister tell 
 a story in which that word occurred. He could 
 not omit it — the very point of the story bal- 
 anced on it. He approached it as though it 
 might leave a black mark on his righteous lips, 
 and in the very act of utterance he went all 
 pink and tingling with the iniquitous joy of it. 
 Now to a time-worn profligate that word is as 
 flavorless as a slice of last week's loaf. 
 
In Four Exposures 61 
 
 /. [wearily]. — I suppose it is. Somehow 
 I never pictured you as using either unkind, 
 vulgar, or profane words. 
 
 E. — I suppose not. My own special aver- 
 sion is for misapplied words. Once I wrote 
 a thing that was n't a poem, though it looked 
 like one. It was large, rough-hewn, grotesque, 
 intense. I read it to a lady, who exclaimed, 
 " How dainty ! " It was about as dainty as a 
 wounded bull charging into a football game. 
 But " dainty " was the fashionable adjective of 
 the moment, so of course it had to be used. 
 
 /. — Your anecdotes are extremely interest- 
 ing, but they are not exactly what I came for. 
 
 E. — You came, I suppose, to say good-by ; 
 but [politely] I trust you are not thinking of 
 going yet. It is scarcely eight o'clock. 
 
 /. — Ernestine, why do you hold me so 
 aloof? 
 
62 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 E. [laughing]. — Why is the palace fenced 
 with stone, and whence are garden walls ? 
 
 I. — I do n't know what you mean. 
 
 E. — I mean that I am free ! free ! free ! 
 [She leaps to her feet and flings her arms out- 
 ward with abandon.] You have no longer 
 any power over me. I have purchased my 
 liberty by a week of agony and tears. One 
 tender word would forge my chains again, and 
 make them stronger than ever. Am I likely 
 to give it ? Or permit you to give it ? [She 
 crosses the room and raises a window to cool 
 the fire in her eyes and cheeks.] 
 
 /. — By Jove ! you are beautiful to-night, 
 with that freshness of color and intensity of 
 emotion in your face. You deserve to be free. 
 Nature never meant you for a domestic woman 
 — the type of woman who eternally looks as 
 if she smelt the preserves burning. 
 
In Four Exposures 63 
 
 E. — Yes, the preserves would be a bother ; 
 but what really, unfits me for domestic life is my 
 incapacity for wrangling. 
 
 /. — Wrangling ? 
 
 E. — Oh, dissensions, contradictions, jar- 
 ings, friction, discord. Did you ever visit in a 
 house where the eyes of the wife did not at 
 some moment in the conversation say to those 
 of her husband, " Aha ! you see I am right, 
 and you are wrong," or where the eyes of the 
 husband did not say to those of the wife, "Aha, 
 you see I am right, and you are wrong." Not 
 to mention the horrible collisions with children 
 and servants over every darn trifle that comes 
 up every half minute of the day. I seldom 
 pass a house when I am in a railway train with- 
 out thinking, " The occupants of that house are 
 wrangling and jangling each other's livens out. 
 Poor devils ! Poor devils ! " 
 
64 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 /. — I do n't like you to say " darn " and 
 "devil." 
 
 E. — What do I care what you like ? 
 
 /. — Do n't you care a straw for me, Ernes- 
 tine ? 
 
 E. — Divil a straw ! 
 
 /. — You are reckless to-night, and wildly 
 inconsistent. 
 
 E. — I am just what I happen to please to be. 
 
 /. — But if you are such a devotee of har- 
 mony, how does it come that you are discord- 
 ant with me ? 
 
 E. — I do n't know how it comes. 
 
 /. — Oh, be as perverse and heartless as you 
 please. 
 
 E* — With pleasure. The only blessed are 
 the truly heartless. It is not warmth in the 
 heart that keeps one contented, but a constant 
 little fire in the head. When I find myself 
 
In Four Exposures 65 
 
 unhappy, I say, u Fool, you have been seeking 
 happiness in your feelings. Go find it in your 
 thoughts. Go build a little fire in your head." 
 You may have to toil and groan to get the fire 
 started, but when the brains begin to snap and 
 crackle, and fling out sparks — ah, the joy of 
 it ! You sit down luxuriously before the finest 
 and most expensive conflagration that earth 
 affords. Your hands and feet, your body and 
 soul, are alike glowing. Your happiness beg- 
 gars that of Paradise. You put some of that 
 costly fire into the poem or story you are mak- 
 ing, and it will create responsive warmth, or 
 kindle a flame in minds most dull of burning. 
 Ah, Irwin, that is what life means — not the 
 satisfaction of the senses and affections — any 
 beast can achieve that ; but the satisfaction of 
 the angel that works in the brain and only asks 
 
 for a little fire to work with. 
 5 
 
66 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 Z, [fervidly] . — Ernestine, you make every 
 good impulse of my being thrill into fresh and 
 splendid life. I am a nobler man for knowing 
 you. Let us both keep alive that glorious little 
 fire in the head. [Instinctively they rise and 
 clasp hands.] We understand each other per- 
 fectly now. But how pale you look. You are 
 exhausted. [Remorsefully.] I have tortured 
 the noblest soul I ever knew. 
 
 E. [sinking down on the sofa beside him, 
 and speaking with low-voiced energy] . — I 
 want to be always the noblest, the most truth- 
 ful, the most inspiring woman you ever knew. 
 I want to command the utmost best that is in 
 you as unerringly as though I were a messen- 
 ger of God standing in the sun, and speaking 
 directly to you. [Reluctantly.] Some of my 
 talk to you to-night was not truthful. 
 
In Four Exposures 67 
 
 /. [kissing her hand reverently] . — I know 
 it, Ernestine. 
 
 E. [cradling the kissed hand against her 
 bosom]. — No, I pretended to be hard and flip- 
 pant and vulgar and hateful to soothe my 
 wounded self-love, and make it easier for us 
 to walk on a crack. 
 
 /. — To walk on a crack ? 
 
 E. — Yes. The straight and narrow path 
 always reminds me of a crack. 
 
 /. [laughing softly]. — Ernestine, I feel 
 almost light-headed in the joy of knowing that 
 we understand each other perfectly at last. 
 Even our parting will be robbed of its pangs > 
 for, now that we can trust each other abso- 
 lutely, we can dare to see each other again 
 many, many times. 
 
 E. [with deep content] . — Yes ; many, 
 
68 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 many times. [They lean against the high back 
 of the sofa, and exchange fond felicities with 
 their eyes.] Oh, this sweet calm, how heav- 
 enly it is ! [They gaze in rapturous silence 
 for some moments.] Dear, I 'm sorry I was 
 cruel to you an hour ago. 
 
 /. — Never think of it again. I knew it was 
 only a little farce you were playing. [He puts 
 his arm around her waist.] 
 
 E. — No, you must n't do that. 
 
 /. [penitently withdrawing it] . — My arm 
 had something to say to you. It wished to say 
 that I forgive you for being cruel to me. 
 
 E. [with a humorous glint in her eyes] . — 
 I think — perhaps — it might be allowed to 
 say that, providing — providing it does n't stut- 
 ter. [He draws her closely to him. Her face 
 is in his neck, his cheek on her brow. Sud- 
 denly she rouses with a laugh.] 
 
In Four Exposures 69 
 
 /. — Do n't laugh. 
 
 E. — But I am thinking what an unfortu- 
 nate person you are. 
 
 /. — In what way unfortunate ? 
 
 E. — You have two afflicted arms — one 
 stutters and the other is dumb. 
 
 /. [rising to his feet and drawing her with 
 both arms to his breast] . — Oh, darling — 
 
 E, [in alarm] . — Irwin, I never meant — 
 
 I. [fiercely] . — I do n't care what you meant. 
 Do you think I can stand your lips in my neck ? 
 Do you think I can endure your warm body 
 resting its tender weight on me ? Do you think 
 I can resist your seductive suggestions ? No, 
 by God ! I am not made of stone, nor yet of 
 iron. You shall do as I say. You shall put 
 your arms around my neck that way, and put 
 your lips up to my lips this way [kissing her]. 
 Oh, my sweet — my sweet — 
 
70 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 E. [tearing herself from him in a tempest 
 of tears] . — Oh, Irwin, Irwin, Irwin, I am a 
 vile creature ; I am the weakest woman alive. 
 Better make your best friend of some Magda- 
 len than of me. She at least is what she pro- 
 fesses to be. She does n't pose as your guar- 
 dian angel, and your bright particular star. Oh, 
 God help me ! [She bows her face to her 
 knees, and mutters a prayer amid her sobs.] 
 
 /. [with blank, colorless face]. — My good 
 Lord, how did we get to this state ? Do n't 
 cry, Ernestine, dear, do n't cry. What puz- 
 zles me is, how in the devil did we get in this 
 pit? 
 
 E. [with averted eyes]. — Merely by the 
 action of moral gravitation. Let yourself go, 
 and the greater the height from which you de- 
 scend, the greater the velocity of your descent. 
 
 /. [with utter sadness]. — And we de- 
 
In Four Exposures 71 
 
 scended from such beautiful heights Ernestine. 
 
 E. — Oh, I know it ! I know it ! And we 
 can never go back. 
 
 /. — Your defeat is not so terrible as mine. 
 You are false only to yourself. I have spir- 
 itually outraged the woman who believes me 
 true — the woman to whom I vowed my truth. 
 Oh, Ernestine, I cannot tell you what that 
 dear girl is to me. The very sight of her the 
 day after I left you put me in an agony of self- 
 contempt. She said she v/as glad I had taken 
 a holiday, for I had needed it so badly, and she 
 pitied me and petted me, while my guilty soul 
 shrank and crouched in my body. I told her 
 I had seen you, and that we had gone for a 
 boat -ride, and that you were an interesting 
 woman, and she said she was so glad that my 
 holiday had not been a dull one. Oh, she 
 stabbed me with her sweet lips, and I burned 
 
72 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 to tell her all — to hear her reproach, denounce, 
 curse me — anything rather than believe in me. 
 The precious girl ! God knows I love her. 
 There is nothing in my life that has not been 
 opened to her eyes — nothing but this — and 
 the burden of this false love, this secret black- 
 ness, is greater than I can bear. Your agony 
 and tears have been matched by mine. 
 
 E. [weeping]. — Irwin, why did you come 
 to me again ? It was a cruel parting — that 
 last parting of ours — but it did not hurt as this 
 does. 
 
 I. — Before heaven, I did not mean to tempt 
 you, or put myself in the way of temptation. 
 I wanted to talk to you again. It seemed years 
 since I had heard you, laughed with you, looked 
 at the roses in your cheeks. I could n't re- 
 member whether it was with me or with my 
 picture that you had gone boating. It was your 
 
In Four Exposures 73 
 
 sweet talk to the Pretty Child that first bowled 
 me over, Ernestine. No man on earth could 
 have stood that. 
 
 E. — But, Irwin, I didn't think of the Pretty 
 Child as a man at all. I called him by a dozen 
 pet names, and it always gave me a little shock 
 when you so easily took it for granted that 
 when I was talking to him I was thinking of 
 you. And yet [sighing] I suppose it was your 
 existence and interest that gave color to my 
 fancies. Oh, I should never have met you. 
 
 /. — Ah, my girl, my girl, we can never trust 
 each other again. 
 
 E. — No, I have lost your friendship for- 
 ever, and all by my own imbecility. Why did 
 I sit down beside you ? Why could I not 
 have kept you at arms' length ? [They look 
 at each other with unspeakable sadness.] I 
 wish God would give me another chance. He 
 
74 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 trusted you to me twice, and twice I failed 
 Him. Oh, I wish He would give me another 
 chance ! [They still prefer looking despair- 
 ingly at each other to not looking at all.] 
 
 /. — Oh, Ernestine, if we only could by 
 some superhuman resolution, superhumanly 
 kept, preserve our beautiful companionship 
 free from the slightest taint of passion. I can- 
 not give you up. You are all the world to me. 
 Must I give up all the world in order to save 
 my own soul ? I cannot believe it. We are 
 rational creatures ; we must regulate and con- 
 trol this hitherto unmanageable stream of ten- 
 dency. Do people conclude to live without 
 water because rivers overflow, and neighbor- 
 hoods are swept away ? No, by Jove ! It 
 would be degrading to have to admit to our- 
 selves that we had not sufficient strength and 
 
In Four Exposures 75 
 
 self-control to govern a mere instinct of our 
 nature. 
 
 E. — Ah, I do n't know. I have lost all 
 faith, I am not wantonly wicked, but I have 
 shown myself despicably weak. 
 
 /. — No, it is I who have been cowardly. I 
 left all the burden of resistance with you. I will 
 be strong now. Do you trust me, Ernestine ? 
 
 E.— Yes. 
 
 /. — Then believe me when I say that I feel 
 myself stronger now than ever before. Poor 
 girl — poor weary child ! I could gatner you to 
 my breast as purely as if you were indeed a 
 weary little child — just to see your dear face 
 at rest before I go. 
 
 E. — Oh, Irwin, your eyes are full of the 
 divinest tenderness. 
 
 /. — And my heart is full of the divinest ten- 
 
76 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 derness. [In exquisite cadences.] Can *t you 
 trust it, Ernestine ? Can 't you trust me ? [He 
 draws her softly to him, and she drops her head 
 on his shoulder.] There ! now the little pained 
 crease is going away from between the brows ; 
 now the lips are taking their sweet curve again. 
 Close your eyes and rest, dear child. You have 
 nothing to fear. 
 
 E. — If I could only die now ! Die as the 
 trees die, slowly — oh, so slowly — and go from 
 rest to deeper rest, and through that to deepest 
 rest; and feel the ferns and mosses growing 
 about me — growing slowly, slowly, all about 
 me, amid the leaf shadows and the dew. 
 
 /. — And I should be there, too, darling. 
 
 E. [opening her eyes and smiling fondly] . 
 — Tou^ Irwin ! what should I do with you ? 
 Your warm look would wither my green ferns 
 
In Four Exposures 77 
 
 — one shy sunbeam glance is enough for them. 
 
 /. — I must leave you now, dearest. It is so 
 late. 
 
 E. — Not yet for a moment — just a little, 
 little moment. [She gives her finger tips the 
 pleasure of touching his face.] I am so glad 
 we are strong, and that we can trust each other. 
 
 /. [shivering] . — Yes, I am so glad — so glad. 
 Good-by, my — my own. [Their lips meet, 
 and cling in a long kiss.] Ah, come closer to 
 me, my sweet, my sweet. You gave me your 
 soul in that kiss — give me yourself forever. 
 You belong to me [huskily]. Nothing can 
 come between us. 
 
 E. — Nothing but your sweethearts face. 
 
 /. [with a groan]. — Don't talk to me of 
 my pale love. She is my Bible — my heaven 
 — my Judgment Day — my goodness-of-God 
 
78 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 in human form. But you are my life. I will 
 not part with my life. Kiss me again, darling. 
 Give me your soul — give me yourself. 
 
 E. [striving to free herself]. — I will not. 
 Let me go — instantly. Go away, Irwin — 
 ever so far ! 
 
 /. [holding her tightly] . — Oh, you are vir- 
 tuous ! You ! with your damnable caresses — 
 your fingers on my face and your breath in my 
 neck. You soul of a harlot in the body of a 
 nun ! You spiritual prostitute clothed in ice ! 
 You are not wicked — oh, no, you are only 
 weak. Good God ! Give me a woman who 
 is wicked and is not weak. Mud is lovelier 
 than muddy snow. [Pushes her away, and 
 rushes wildly out of the house.] 
 
 E. [following him and wreathing her arms 
 about him in the starless darkness] . — Irwin, I 
 can never give you myself, but I shall give you 
 
In Four Exposures 79 
 
 the strongest love of my soul from eternity to 
 eternity. 
 
 /, [putting her from him with soft-voiced 
 and soft-gestured contempt] . — Ah ! do n't — 
 bother — me. Don't — bother — me! Don't 
 — do n't — bother — me. [Exeunt. 
 
8o The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Place: The City Library. Time: Evening. 
 Philip leaning back in a listening attitude. 
 Ernestine bending forward in an eagerly 
 speaking attitude. As she finishes her nar- 
 ration she drops her head, half lifelessly, to 
 the cushions behind her. 
 
 Ernestine. — Those were his last words. 
 " Do n't — bother — me. Do n't — do n't 
 — bother — me." They follow me always like 
 the dead face that follows a murderer. 
 
 Philip [meditatively] . — H'm ; seems to be 
 a melodramatic cuss. You have n't much 
 common sense, Ernestine. That is why I 
 think you are not a poet. Real poets are rich 
 
In Four Exposures 81 
 
 in common sense. But, honestly, how much 
 of all this was put on ? 
 
 E. [sitting up straight with startled eyes]. — 
 Put on ? 
 
 P. — Yes ; what hand is Imagination taking 
 in the game ? A hysterical woman is a very 
 deceitful creature, especially when she is mas- 
 querading in a man's form. In that case she 
 invariably thinks she is at the last gasp, when, 
 if the truth were fully known, she has not 
 ~eally arrived at the first gasp. 
 
 E. [sinking back wearily] . — I do n't know 
 what you mean. 
 
 P. — In words of one syllable then. Is not 
 your friend a fraud ? 
 
 E. [rising and pacing the floor] . — Have I 
 told my story so badly as that ? He told me 
 the exact truth when he said that his life had 
 been absolutely pure — the exact truth whea 
 
Si The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 foe said that up to the time he concealed my 
 letters he had never concealed anything from 
 his sweetheart — the exact truth when he said 
 he suffered anguish because of this conceal- 
 ment. 
 
 P. — How do you know it was the exact 
 truth ? 
 
 E. — Oh, his eyes are pure as dew. When 
 did ever the eyes bear false witness ? And 
 then he has the expressive face of a lovely soul. 
 Have you ever noticed that unlovely souls usu- 
 ally hide behind a face as expressionless as a 
 stone wall ? I grew to learn so many of his 
 expressions : the sweet eagerness — the mirth- 
 ful look when he was making fun of me — the 
 contrite look when he was sorry he had made 
 fun of me — the look of quivering sensitiveness 
 — the look of yearning tenderness — the burn- 
 ing and broken look of passion — the gray look 
 
In Four Exposures 83 
 
 of self-loathing and despair. Oh, he told the 
 truth ! His face and his voice and his eyes 
 stabbed me with the truth. Would to God 
 they had told me false ! 
 
 P. — So then, as I understand it, this seraph 
 with the seventeen halos is writhing in the 
 burning marl of his own self-abhorrence. And 
 all for what ? All for a stolen kiss or two ! 
 Why, look you ! I 've committed that same 
 crime myself. I was a boy, and she was trail- 
 ing clouds of glory as she came, according to 
 my veracious fancy, and we were on the way 
 back from singing-school when the awful deed 
 was committed — and mightily disappointed she 
 would have been if it had n't been committed. 
 
 E. — She would have honored you if you 
 had n't. 
 
 P. — Honored me? Fiddlesticks! You 
 never went to singing-school. And was I re- 
 
«4 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 morseful over it ? Yes, I was. Remorseful 
 that I had n't kissed her again. Ah, the golden 
 opportunities of youth ! How shockingly they 
 are wasted. 
 
 E. — What became of her ? 
 
 P. — Oh, she married some honest John 
 Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher. I meet her 
 about once in two or three years, and it would 
 do you good to see the sentimental look sh< 
 gives me when honest John's back is turned. 
 She thinks of course that I am consigning my- 
 self to perpetual bachelorhood for her sake, and 
 I let her cherish the illusion. Rob a woman 
 of her illusions and she would n't have charm 
 enough left to mash an erotic maniac. Once 
 when honest John's back was n't turned quite 
 far enough he caught me giving a sentimental 
 look in response, and gracious ! was n't he 
 pleased to think that I envied him his treasure. 
 
 : 
 
In Four Exposures 85 
 
 It's the easiest thing in the world to make peo- 
 ple happy. Be willing to humor their illusions, 
 and they will steep you in perpetual smiles. 
 Do n't you find it so ? 
 
 E. — Oh, forgive me — I was n't listening* 
 I am in dreadful pain, Philip, dreadful pain — 
 really and truly. 
 
 P. — My poor ingenuous child ! To think 
 that had you been willing to marry me years 
 ago — when I loved you — all this trouble 
 would have been prevented. Or would it ? 
 
 E. — When you loved me ? Do n't you 
 love me now ? 
 
 P. [smiling] . — You can 't help being a 
 woman s can you ? Why, yes, of course I love 
 you now. I kicked the selfish part of my love 
 out behind the ash barrel in the back yard of 
 my consciousness, and framed the unselfish 
 part in purple and gold — the gold of sunshine* 
 
86 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 and the purple of forget-me-nots. A feat that 
 your seraphic friend does n't seem to have got 
 the knack of. 
 
 E. — Oh, but I hindered him wofully by 
 loving him all the time — yes, really I did — 
 and showing him my love. And I helped you 
 by never falling in love with you at all. 
 
 P. — That is true. Still, most men in my 
 place would have scorned to subsist on friend- 
 ship instead of luxuriating on love. 
 
 E. — Most men are fearful fools. What a 
 blessing our life-long friendship has been to us. 
 You were a dear boy not to let a one-sided 
 love-affair break it up. 
 
 P. [with a masculine toss of the head] . — 
 And I won't be dear-boyed about it either. 
 
 E. [faintly smiling] . — Well, you need n't be. 
 
 P. — I love to see you smile. Do you know 
 why I have called your attention to the claims 
 
In Four Exposures 87 
 
 of friendship ? It is to show you that love is 
 not the finest thing in the world. 
 
 E. — No, the finest thing in the world is 
 fame. That is the only thing worth while. 
 That is what I shall live for. 
 
 P. [resignedly]. — As I remarked before, 
 you are deficient in common sense. What can 
 fame do for you ? Fame tears off the roof and 
 turns the electric light on the family frying- 
 pan. Fame strips ofF the clothing, and exposes 
 the shrinking frame from triceps to tibia, while 
 it calls upon the general public to observe that 
 your spine is curly and your toes straight, or 
 that your toes are curly and your spine straight. 
 Fame is a thing of Roentgen rays — it pierces 
 the flesh itself, and discloses the brain and ner- 
 vous system as nakedly as a painted picture in 
 a work on physiology. If I had a sister who 
 was liable to become famous I should buy her 
 
88 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 the cutest little coffin you ever saw, and take 
 the speediest legitimate means of inducting her 
 into its mysteries. 
 
 E. [wearily] . — Well, if it 's as bad as that 
 I shall have to content myself with being 
 infamous. 
 
 P. — Ernestine ! Why should you say that ? 
 
 E. — Oh, I am in dreadful pain, Philip, — 
 really and truly. If it were only my own pain 
 I could bear it, but I feel the weight of his 
 anguish pressing down on me — oh, awfully. 
 Just as I felt his joy added to mine in the bliss 
 of loving, so I feel his burden laid on my own 
 in the weight of remorse. To be in hell is 
 not the worst punishment. To know that I 
 have dragged my child into hell — that is the 
 unapproachable torture. 
 
 P.— Your child? 
 
 E. — Yes ; he is my child. This misery- 
 
In Four Exposures 89 
 
 stricken face that haunts me never existed until 
 I gave it birth. 
 
 P. — Please remember that, dear as he is to 
 you, you are equally dear to me. You are my 
 child, and I will not let you suffer. 
 
 E. [laughing hysterically] . — Papa, I wish 
 you could relieve me of your grandchild. He's 
 getting too heavy for me to manage. 
 
 P. — Oh, he hasn't manhood enough in 
 him to be anybody's grandchild. He is a wax 
 doll baby — ruined by the touch of fire. Ugh ! 
 He makes me sick. 
 
 E. — The touch of fire did not ruin him, 
 any more than it ruined you and your school- 
 girl love. It was the touch of dishonor — the 
 loving two women when he had sworn to love 
 only one. He has the fiercely relentless con- 
 science that makes one false step, or even the 
 cherished imagining of a false step, a blacker 
 
90 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 stain in his eyes than the unpardonable sin 
 would seem to another. 
 
 P. — Ah, I know the type. A moral Nar- 
 cissus, soaked in self-love, self-pride, and self- 
 righteousness, and accustomed to worship the 
 image of his own perfections. Said he was 
 humiliated, did n't he, and mourned over the 
 flaw in his own immaculateness ? I tell you 
 I would rather be an ink-black scoundrel, ooz- 
 ing iniquity at every pore, than one of these 
 self-righteous skunks that — 
 
 E. — Oh, peace ! Perhaps he was a little 
 vain of his moral superiorities. When they are 
 less rare it will be easier for their possessors 
 to be unconscious of them. 
 
 P. — And then his detestable selfishness ! A 
 really honorable man does not permit the 
 wrong woman to fall in love with him. He 
 freezes over, or forgets to write her more than 
 
In Four Exposures 91 
 
 a hurried note, or ignores her little coquetries. 
 Instead of praising her for her pretty style of 
 prancing over cantharides, he remembers how 
 he would like to have his sister treated if she 
 fell into eroticism, and restricts himself to gen- 
 eralities. This creature waits to see how far 
 you will go, and then insults you for not going 
 farther. 
 
 E. — Oh, he warned me — he warned me ! 
 
 P. — When you seem helplessly in his power 
 he begins to boohoo, not over your struggle and 
 your tears, not over your aching heart and the 
 hard, hard pain that you are so bravely endur- 
 ing — no; but simply over the imaginary strain 
 on his own selfish little lap-dog soul. 
 
 E. — I tell you he is not in the smallest 
 degree to blame. It was I who brought him 
 to this pass. 
 
 P. — What other pass could you have 
 
92 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 brought him to that would have pleased him so 
 well ? Do you suppose he has grieved for a 
 moment over the suffering that you had to 
 endure ? The rank egotist ! 
 
 E. — Yes, he is an egotist — he is a man — 
 it is the same thing. But all your denuncia- 
 tions are nothing but words. I know him. You 
 would describe Eden by a minute account of 
 the wilderness outside of it ; I have been on 
 the other side of the wall. Nothing you or 
 anyone could say would prevent me from see- 
 ing him as he is — the sensitive face, warm, 
 keen, alive, intensely sympathetic, responding 
 as vividly to my emotion as to his own — the 
 lovely mirror of two souls; the eyes that caught 
 me, and held me, and prayed to me, and ca- 
 ressed me, and shrank from me, and clung to 
 me, and at last killed me with their misery — 
 oh, the darling, my darling ! 
 
In Four Exposures 93 
 
 P. — He is not your darling — he is his 
 sweetheart's darling. 
 
 E. — His sweetheart is perfect. Could she 
 grudge me this drop from her full cup ? I shall 
 never write to him again — never see him again. 
 She would not grudge me my little breath of 
 life. 
 
 P. — So his fiance is perfection, is she ? I 
 notice these desperately emotional, excitable 
 fellows generally do marry a bread poultice, 
 and endow it with the usual angelic attributes* 
 [Rising.] Well, Ernestine, I can 't help you, 
 so I will leave you. 
 
 E. [entreatingly] . — Oh, not yet. I want 
 to talk to you about him. I love him so — 
 really I do. 
 
 P. [comfortingly], — Yes, dear, I know* 
 And in six weeks you will wonder why you 
 loved him ; and in six months you will wonder 
 
94 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 if you loved him; and in six years you will 
 wonder how he spells his name. 
 
 E. [scornfully]. — That, I suppose, is the 
 course of your love toward me. 
 
 P. — No ; my love for you happened to be 
 the noblest and finest thing in my nature, and 
 it was transformed to a life-long pity for us. 
 The love you feel for this outlaw is an ille- 
 gitimate thing — it 's a thing to be hidden in 
 darkness, to be hinted at below the breath, to 
 be thought of with shame. Reason enough 
 why it should find a speedy death. 
 
 E. — Oh, I think it would pay me to keep 
 it alive. It might prevent me from becoming 
 a self-righteous pole-cat. 
 
 P. — Twist my words to suit yourself. You 
 know — 
 
 E. [passionately]. — You have not the 
 faintest conception of the sort of love I have 
 
In Four Exposures 95 
 
 for him. If he were so black a sinner that 
 even God's love should falter toward him, my 
 love would not falter ; if the devastating years 
 should rob him of all his grace and charm and 
 vigor — make him physically an infant, and 
 morally and mentally an idiot, my love would 
 be only intensified. Did I not say truly when 
 I said he is my child ? Do n't you understand 
 me, Philip ? It is n't a matter of fancy or of 
 choice — it is n't a matter of my wanting him 
 to love me. I should rather he did not love me, 
 because he would be happier that way. 
 
 P. — I have n't the least doubt that you think 
 you are sincere. 
 
 E. — Oh, I am sincere, Philip. Every mood 
 has its own Sincerity. The trouble is, moods 
 are such fickle things. 
 
 P. — You surprise me ! 
 
 E. — Yes ; there 's no knowing when they 
 
96 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 will change. And that makes people fancy 
 you are not sincere [with a sad sigh] . Really, 
 I am to be pitied. I have two griefs. Grief 
 number one, because my lover has forsaken me, 
 and grief number two, because grief number 
 one is but mortal. 
 
 P. — I might endeavor to assuage one grief, 
 but two is too many. Shall I read aloud to 
 you ? Let me lend to the rhyme of the poet 
 the beauty of my voice. [Picks up a volume 
 of poems, from which a sealed letter drops to 
 the floor.] Hullo ! here is a letter addressed 
 to you. 
 
 E. [stretching out a languid hand] . — Yes, 
 it came this afternoon, but I did n't open it. I 
 was in no mood for ladyish twaddle and gossip 
 in general. 
 
 P. — Perhaps you 'd better glance over it 
 now. I've tried answering unopened letters 
 
In Four Exposures 97 
 
 that were afterwards lost, and I never could 
 decide as to whether congratulations or condo- 
 lences were expected of me. Ernestine, what 
 on earth is the matter ? You are deathly white. 
 
 E. [with forced calm]. — She writes that 
 cards are out for the wedding of — of the sub- 
 jects of our conversation. They are to be 
 married on Thursday. 
 
 P. — Well, you knew all along that they 
 were engaged. 
 
 E. — Yes, but an engaged girl of five or six 
 years' standing is such an old, old story. As a 
 bride she won't be old at all. She '11 be new. 
 Too suffocatingly new [groaning]. Think of 
 the savage stab to my vanity. 
 
 P. — Yes ; that certainly makes grief num- 
 ber three. I thought you could hardly escape 
 with only two. And it 's worse than the 
 others, because it 's in a vital spot. 
 
9 8 The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 E.— Yes, it 's horrible. And then, the in- 
 decency, the immorality^ of it I To be wedded 
 to one woman in soul, and then go straightway 
 off to marry another. 
 
 P. — Oh, well, it was n't exactly your soul 
 that he wanted. At least, I inferred that from 
 some things you said. 
 
 E. [rising with flashing eyes]. — I wish her 
 joy of him ! She '11 soon sicken of his subter- 
 fuges and his selfishness, his contemptible 
 crawling way of seeming to think of others' 
 happiness when he is really caring only for his 
 own, his disgusting habit of changing from 
 flame to stone and from stone to flame at a 
 moment's notice, his flippancy, his moral flim- 
 siness, his — 
 
 P. — That's my brave Ernestine. I can 
 realize that this mood has its own sincerity. 
 
In Four Exposures 99 
 
 Your words make grateful music in my ears. 
 Let me go before they cease. [Closes the door 
 behind him.] Pah ! her disease has become 
 tiresome ; not interesting any more. Poor 
 thing ! A specimen for Nordau. 
 
 E. [going up-stairs] . — If only my present 
 rational state of mind would last ! But it won't 
 — it won't ! [Reaching her room.] I feel it 
 weakening every moment. [Seizing Irwin's 
 picture.] Ah, darling, no other woman on 
 earth could give you such a love as I could 
 give you — so fond, so faithful, so self-sacrific- 
 ing. But then [smiling at the picture through 
 her tears] , you know you do n't deserve a love 
 like that, so an all-wise Providence is n't going 
 to let you have it. Oh, dear ! [Setting the 
 picture down.] I do n't suppose I '11 ever find 
 anyone else half so impressible as Irwin. Such 
 
ioo The Epistolary Flirt 
 
 men are all too few. No, I '11 not cry. It will 
 give me a headache, and I can 't drive a head- 
 ache away at the point of a pen as I can a 
 heartache. Oh, how desolate I feel ! [Flings 
 herself on the bed in a paroxysm of tears.] 
 
 THE END. 
 
PRINTED AT THE LAKESIDE PRESS 
 
 BY R. R. DONNELLEY AND SONS CO. 
 
 MDCCCXCVI 
 
THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 WAY AND WILLIAMS 
 
 CHICAGO ILLINOIS 
 
 CHICAGO 
 WAY W WILLIAMS 
 
 MDCCCXCVI 
 
The Publications of 
 WAY AND WILLIAMS 
 
 AMORY (Esmerie). 
 
 The Epistolary Flirt. A Story, in 
 dramatic form, satirizing a certain sort of phi- 
 landering men and women that abound in 
 "literary circles." i6mo, cloth, gilt top, $i. 
 
 BAIN (R. Nisbet). 
 
 Russian Fairy Tales. Illustrated by 
 C. M. Gere. 8vo, ornamental cloth, gilt top, 
 264 pages, $1.50. 
 
 It is a reasonable presumption that curiosity will 
 prompt many readers to inspect this volume, and it is 
 quite as certain that those who read it will be well 
 repaid. — Chicago Evening Post. 
 
 BARING-GOULD (S.). 
 
 Old English Fairy Tales. With illus- 
 trations by F. D. Bedford. 8vo, 400 pages, 
 cloth, $2.00. 
 
 The bare bones of these pretty traditions have been 
 clothed in the flesh of poetic fancy and a charming and 
 familiar style by Mr. Gould, who is now at the very 
 height of his popularity as a writer. — Cleveland World. 
 
THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 BRIDGES (Robert). 
 
 Ode for the Bicentenary Commem- 
 oration of Henry Purcell, with other 
 Poems and a Preface on the Musical Setting 
 of Poetry. i6mo, 54 pages, 75 cts. 
 
 Two hundred copies on Van Gelder hand-made 
 paper for sale in America, $1.25 net, 
 
 BROWNE (Francis F.). 
 
 Volunteer Grain. Poems. Printed by 
 John Wilson & Son on Van Gelder paper. 
 Edition limited to 160 copies, of which 150 
 are for sale. 8vo, gilt top, 70 pages, $2.25 
 net. (Very few remain.) 
 
 CHENEY (John Vance). 
 
 Queen Helen and Other Poems. Printed 
 at the De Vinne Press on French hand-made 
 paper ; with vignette and headpiece reproduced 
 from compositions made by John Flaxman for 
 the Iliad of Homer. Edition limited to 160 
 copies, of which 150 are for sale. i6mo, buck- 
 ram, gilt top, 78 pages, $3.00 net. (Very few 
 remain.) 
 
 CHESNEY (George Tomkyns). 
 
 The Battle of Dorking, the German 
 Conquest of England. Reminiscences of a 
 
WAY & WILLIAMS 
 
 volunteer, describing the arrival of the German 
 Armada, the destruction of the British fleet, 
 decisive battle of Dorking, the capture of Lon- 
 don, downfall of the British Empire. 8vo, 
 paper, 25 cts.; cloth, 50 cts. 
 
 COONLEY (Lydia Avery). 
 
 Under the Pines and Other Verses. 
 Printed from new type on deckle-edge paper. 
 i6mo, cloth, 104 pages, $1.25. 
 
 DRACHMANN (Holger). 
 
 Paul and Virginia of a Northern 
 Zone. A Romance translated from the Dan- 
 ish of Holger Drachmann, with introductory 
 note by Mr. Francis F. Browne. Daintily 
 printed and bound, cover design by Mr. Bruce 
 Rogers. Gilt top, uncut, 208 pages, $1.25. 
 
 The voice of an artist, if not of a prophet, sounds 
 from the North. . . . Wholesome, fresh, and ele- 
 mental as the salt breezes it exhales from every page. 
 — Chicago Tribune, 
 
 It is a pretty story of the Danish shore, of sand- 
 dunes, coast-forests, sea-faring folk, and a boy-and- 
 girl pair of lovers. To read it is to feel salt spray in 
 the face and to breathe the fragrance of birch trees 5 
 to follow the sea in bitter earnest and to play with 
 beetles in the woods ; to make friends with rough, 
 moody, kindly villagers, human and canine, and to 
 
THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 watch the love of the blacksmith's bashful son and the 
 Captain's teasing daughter through lyric childhood to 
 dramatic culmination. — The Nation. 
 
 FRIEDMAN (I. K.). 
 
 The Lucky Number. Cloth, 1 6mo, $1.25. 
 
 GARNETT (Richard). 
 
 The Twilight of the Gods. Cloth, 
 
 1 6 m . (In preparation.) 
 
 GISSING (George). 
 
 The Emancipated. A Novel. 8vo, cloth, 
 456 pages, $1.50. 
 
 HEMINGWAY (Percy). 
 
 The Happy Wanderer. With title de- 
 signed by Charles I. ffoulkes. Printed at the 
 Chiswick Press on hand-made paper. Square 
 i6mo, cloth, 75 pages, $1.50 net. 
 
 HENRY (Stuart). 
 
 Hours with Famous Parisians. Cloth, 
 1 6 mo, $1.25. (Ready in December.) 
 
 HORT'ON (George). 
 
 Constantine. A Tale of Greece under 
 King Otho. i6mo, cloth. (In preparation.) 
 
 HOUSMAN (Clemence). 
 
 The Were- Wolf. With title-page, cover 
 
WAY & WILLIAMS 
 
 design, and illustrations by Laurence Housman. 
 Square i6mo, 123 pages, $1.25. 
 
 The tale moves along with primitive directness and 
 irresistible dramatic sweep, and the fascinated reader, 
 impelled by the tragic interest of the story, lays not 
 down the book until its fateful close. — Dundee Ad- 
 vertiser. 
 
 HOUSMAN (Laurence). 
 
 Green Arras. Poems. With title-page, 
 cover, and illustrations by the author. 8vo, 
 #1.50 net. 
 
 MATHEW (Frank). 
 
 The Wood of the Brambles. This new 
 Irish novel is a story of the Irish uprising in 
 1798, a most tragic period of Irish history, 
 with all its exciting incidents of rapine and 
 outrage and deeds of daring and self-sacrifice 
 depicted in lurid colors. 8 vo, cloth, 46 1 pages, 
 $1.50. 
 
 MEYNELL (Alice). 
 
 The Color of Life. i2mo, cloth, 103 
 pages, $1.25. (Second edition.) 
 
 MUNKITTRICK (R. K.). 
 
 The Acrobatic Muse. Humorous Poems. 
 i6mo, cloth, $1.25. 
 
THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 NOBLE (James Ashcroft). 
 
 The Sonnet in England and Other 
 
 Essays. Cloth, gilt top, 211 pages, $1.50. 
 
 NOEL (Hon. Roden). 
 
 My Sea and Other Posthumous Poems. 
 With an introduction by Stanley Addleshaw. 
 Tastefully printed and bound, 76 pages, $1.25 
 net. 
 PAYNE (William Morton). 
 
 Little Leaders. A selection from edi- 
 torial articles written for The Dial by Mr. 
 W. M. Payne, Associate Editor. i6mo, cloth, 
 gilt top, uncut, 278 pages, $1.50. 
 
 PEATTIE (Elia W.). 
 
 A Mountain Woman. With cover de- 
 signed by Mr. Bruce Rogers, i6mo, cloth, gilt 
 top, 251 pages, $1.25. (Second edition.) 
 
 ROSSETTI (Dante Gabriel). 
 
 Hand and Soul. By Dante Gabriel 
 Rossetti. Reprinted from The Germ by Mr. 
 William Morris, at the Kelmscott Press, in the 
 u Golden " type, with a specially designed title- 
 page and border, and in special binding 1 6mo, 
 525 paper copies printed, and 21 on vellum. 
 300 paper copies for America, of which a few 
 
WAY & WILLIAMS 
 
 remain for sale at $3.50 net. (Vellum copies 
 
 all sold.) 
 
 SHARP (William). 
 
 ECCE PUELLA. 8vO, cloth, $1.25- 
 
 SHELLEY (Percy Bysshe). 
 
 The Banquet of Plato. A dainty reprint 
 of Shelley's little-known translation of " The 
 Banquet of Plato," prefaced by the Poet's frag- 
 mentary note on " The Symposium." Title- 
 page and decorations by Mr. Bruce Rogers. 
 i6mo, 126 pages, $1.50. Seventy-five copies 
 on handmade paper, $3.00 net. 
 
 SNOW (Florence L.). 
 
 The Lamp of Gold. Printed at the De 
 Vinne Press on French handmade paper. Title- 
 page and cover designs by Mr. Edmund H. Gar- 
 rett. i6mo, cloth, 121 pages, gilt top, $1.25. 
 
 One hundred numbered copies on 'Japan paper, 
 with etched title-page, and in special binding. 
 Price on application. 
 
 STODDART (Thomas T.). 
 
 The Death- Wake ; or Lunacy. A 
 Necromaunt in Three Chimeras. With an 
 introduction by Mr. Andrew Lang. i6mo, 
 125 pages, cardinal buckram, $1.50 net. 
 
PUBLICATIONS OF WAY Gf WILLIAMS 
 
 TRAILL (H. D.). 
 
 From Cairo to the Soudan Frontier. 
 Cloth, 256 pages, $1.50. 
 
 TODHUNTER (John). 
 
 Three Irish Bardic Tales, being Met- 
 rical Versions of the Three Tales known as 
 The Three Sorrows of Story-Telling. Cloth, 
 160 pages, $1.50 net. 
 
 WATERLOO (Stanley). 
 
 An Odd Situation. With introduction 
 by Sir Walter Besant. Octavo, cloth, 240 
 pages, gilt top, $1.25. 
 
 WHITE (W. A.). 
 
 The Real Issue. Cloth, gilt top, $1.25. 
 
 WYNNE (Madelene Yale). 
 
 The Little Room and Other Stories. 
 With cover design, frontispiece, and decora- 
 tions by the author. i6mo, 144 pages, linen,, 
 gilt top, uncut, $1.25. 
 
 YALE (Catharine Brooks). 
 
 Nim and Cum and the Wonderhead 
 Stories. Cover and decorations by Mr. Bruce 
 Rogers. i6mo, linen, 126 pages, gilt top, 
 uncut, $1.25. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 012 070 445 A