The Man Who Hesitates

"Isn't fair'," said Winfield to himself, miserably, "no sir, 't isn't
fair!"

He sat on the narrow piazza which belonged to Mrs. Pendleton's brown
house, and took stern account of his inner self. The morning paper lay
beside him, unopened, though his fingers itched to tear the wrapper, and
his hat was pulled far down over his eyes, to shade them from the sun.

"If I go up there I'm going to fall in love with her, and I know it!"

That moment of revelation the night before, when soul stood face to
face with soul, had troubled him strangely. He knew himself for a
sentimentalist where women were concerned, but until they stood at the
gate together, he had thought himself safe. Like many another man, on
the sunny side of thirty, he had his ideal woman safely enshrined in his
inner consciousness.

She was a pretty little thing, this dream maiden--a blonde, with deep
blue eyes, a rosy complexion, and a mouth like Cupid's bow. Mentally,
she was of the clinging sort, for Winfield did not know that in this
he was out of fashion. She had a dainty, bird-like air about her and
a high, sweet voice--a most adorable little woman, truly, for a man to
dream of when business was not too pressing.

In almost every possible way, Miss Thorne was different. She was dark,
and nearly as tall as he was; dignified, self-possessed, and calm,
except for flashes of temper and that one impulsive moment. He had liked
her, found her interesting in a tantalising sort of way, and looked upon
her as an oasis in a social desert, but that was all.