The Darts of Cupid: Stories by Edith Templeton Read Free Book Online Page B

said, giving me her delightful, cordial smile. Running her fingers through his hair, she added, "Doesn’t he look sweet with his curls? Just like a little boy."
    "Yes," I said, forcing myself to look pleasant.
    "He’s such a lamb altogether," she said. "We’ll be sorry to lose him, shan’t we? He’s got to leave tomorrow."
    "Yes," I said.
    I did not know what sickened me most about the sight of the pair—whether it was her pretty, unconcerned ease at having broken faith with the Major, or the sheer physical fact that she had lent her body, growing the seed of one man, for the use of another, or whether I was revolted by his clever, grinning face, tanned and with the jutting nose and chin, recalling those evil masked puppets carved of wood by the peasants of some Alpine regions. I felt that I might not have been pained so much at her betrayal if at least the Captain had resembled the fair, square-faced, masterful Major.
    As I watched her smiling and caressing his curls, I realized that she was truly sweet "ad nauseam," as the Major had expressed it. It was just because she was so kind, so good-natured, and so welcoming that she found some attraction in every man and some reason for indulging him. Like a whore, she consorted choicelessly, and yet she was the opposite of a whore. A whore hires herself out for money and as an expression of contempt and hatred toward men, but Constance did so without heed of monetary gain, out of admiration.
    "You needn’t dress yet, Eve," she said. "We’ll all have breakfast together. Calvin told us we should wait for you."
    "He went to the office," I said.
    "So he did," she said. "It’s the Calvinist in him. Aren’t these American names ghastly, really? This one here is a horror, too. He’s called Dallas."
    I said, "What can’t be cured must be endured."
    "Oh, Eve, you do come out with the screamingest things!" she cried, and, turning to the Captain, she said, "Look at her, standing there in Calvin’s dressing gown, and so serious. Doesn’t she look heartbreaking? Like a poor little orphan?" I recalled how she had coaxed me to accept the splendid nightgown, how she had loosened my plaited hair and admired it, how she must have known, and taken a pleasure in knowing, of the Major’s wish to lie with me, and I marveled at her goodness.
    "What would you like to have?" she asked. "Bacon and eggs?"
    "Oh, Constance," I said, "what a question. You must be joking." It was truly a hardly creditable question at that time, when one got one egg a week and the bacon ration was two ounces.
    "I get it and I never ask where it comes from," she said. "Calvin does know his way around. And you know, I must hand it to the Yanks. They’re like Father Christmas."
    "Not entirely," I said, "because Father Christmas only brings gifts for good little children, and everyone knows that good little girls never get to wear nylons."
    "Oh, Eve, aren’t you dreadful," she cried. "I wish I had known you before."
    "You are easy to please," I said.
    "Promise we must see a lot of each other, now," she said.
    "Of course," I said. I never saw her again.
    "GOT OVER IT all right?" the Major said to me on the following day.
    "Yes, thank you," I said. "And I want to thank you for your kindness. Yours and Constance’s. Please tell her."
    "But you’re shocked, aren’t you?" he asked.
    I did not speak.
    "Yes, I can see it in your eyes. Why are you so shocked?"
    I said, "It’s—to me, it is revolting. And unforgivable. How could she?"
    "You are looking at it the wrong way," he said. "What the hell, why shouldn’t I lend her to a friend? Hospitality." And he laughed loudly.
    I said, "I’m not—please don’t think that I am judging her. She really is a lovely person. It’s just that I can’t understand it. And I can’t understand you, either."
    "I know you can’t," he said. "You are like a princess—I’ve said so before—and like a princess you are intolerant and won’t make compromises, and if you can’t have