第12章 THE RED CROSS GIRL(8)

"I did," returned Elliott; "I liked it so much that I'm sending you to a bigger place, where you can get bigger stories.We want you to act as our special correspondent in London.Mr.Walsh will explain the work; and if you'll go you'll sail next Wednesday."After his talk with the foreign editor Sam again walked home on air.He could not believe it was real--that it was actually to him it had happened; for hereafter he was to witness the march of great events, to come in contact with men of international interests.Instead of reporting what was of concern only from the Battery to Forty-seventh Street, he would now tell New York what was of interest in Europe and the British Empire, and so to the whole world.There was one drawback only to his happiness--there was no one with whom he might divide it.He wanted to celebrate his good fortune; he wanted to share it with some one who would understand how much it meant to him, who would really care.Had Sister Anne lived, she would have understood; and he would have laid himself and his new position at her feet and begged her to accept them--begged her to run away with him to this tremendous and terrifying capital of the world, and start the new life together.

Among all the women he knew, there was none to take her place.Certainly Anita Flagg could not take her place.Not because she was rich, not because she had jeered at him and made him a laughing-stock, not because his admiration--and he blushed when he remembered how openly, how ingenuously he had shown it to her--meant nothing; but because the girl he thought she was, the girl he had made dreams about and wanted to marry without a moment's notice, would have seen that what he offered, ridiculous as it was when offered to Anita Flagg, was not ridiculous when offered sincerely to a tired, nerve-worn, overworked nurse in a hospital.It was because Anita Flagg had not seen that that she could not now make up to him for the girl he had lost, even though she herself had inspired that girl and for a day given her existence.

Had he known it, the Anita Flagg of his imagining was just as unlike and as unfair to the real girl as it was possible for two people to be.His Anita Flagg he had created out of the things he had read of her in impertinent Sunday supplements and from the impression he had been given of her by the little ass, Holworthy.She was not at all like that.Ever since she had come of age she had been beset by sycophants and flatterers, both old and young, both men and girls, and by men who wanted her money and by men who wanted her.And it was because she got the motives of the latter two confused that she was so often hurt and said sharp, bitter things that made her appear hard and heartless.

As a matter of fact, in approaching her in the belief that he was addressing an entirely different person, Sam had got nearer to the real Anita Flagg than had any other man.And so--when on arriving at the office the next morning, which was a Friday, he received a telegram reading, "Arriving to-morrow nine-thirty from Greenwich; the day cannot begin too soon; don't forget you promised to meet me.Anita Flagg "--he was able to reply: " Extremely sorry; but promise made to a different person, who unfortunately has since died!"'

When Anita Flagg read this telegram there leaped to her lovely eyes tears that sprang from self-pity and wounded feelings.She turned miserably, appealingly to Helen Page.

"But why does he do it to me?" Her tone was that of the bewildered child who has struck her head against the table, and from the naughty table, without cause or provocation, has received the devil of a bump.

Before Miss Page could venture upon an explanation, Anita Flagg had changed into a very angry young woman.

"And what's more," she announced, "he can't do it to me!"She sent her telegram back again as it was, word for word, but this time it was signed, Sister Anne."In an hour the answer came: "Sister Anne is the person to whom I refer.She is dead."Sam was not altogether at ease at the outcome of his adventure.It was not in his nature to be rude--certainly not to a woman, especially not to the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.For, whether her name was Anita or Anne, about her beauty there could be no argument; but he assured himself that he had acted within his rights.A girl who could see in a well-meant offer to be kind only a subject for ridicule was of no interest to him.Nor did her telegrams insisting upon continuing their acquaintance flatter him.As he read them, they showed only that she looked upon him as one entirely out of her world--as one with whom she could do an unconventional thing and make a good story about it later, knowing that it would be accepted as one of her amusing caprices.

He was determined he would not lend himself to any such performance.And, besides, he no longer was a foot-loose, happy-go-lucky reporter.He no longer need seek for experiences and material to turn into copy.He was now a man with a responsible position--one who soon would be conferring with cabinet ministers and putting ambassadors At their ease.

He wondered if a beautiful heiress, whose hand was sought in marriage by the nobility of England, would understand the importance of a London correspondent.He hoped someone would tell her.He liked to think of her as being considerably impressed and a little unhappy.