Incredibly to him who has not learned woman, Mademoiselle sat at the
window each day and spread her nets for the ignominious game. Once
she kept a grand cavalier waiting in her reception chamber for half
an hour while she battered in vain the candy man's tough philosophy.
His rough laugh chafed her vanity to its core. Daily he sat on his
cart in the breeze of the alley while her hair was being ministered
to, and daily the shafts of her beauty rebounded from his dull bosom
pointless and ineffectual. Unworthy pique brightened her eyes.
Pride-hurt she glowed upon him in a way that would have sent her
higher adorers into an egoistic paradise. The candy man's hard eyes
looked upon her with a half-concealed derision that urged her to the
use of the sharpest arrow in her beauty's quiver.
One afternoon she leaned far over the sill, and she did not challenge
and torment him as usual.
"Candy man," said she, "stand up and look into my eyes."
He stood up and looked into her eyes, with his harsh laugh like the
sawing of wood. He took out his pipe, fumbled with it, and put it
back into big pocket with a trembling hand.
"That will do," said Mademoiselle, with a slow smile. "I must go now
to my masseuse. Good-evening."
The next evening at seven the candy man came and rested his cart
under the window. But was it the candy man? His clothes were a bright
new check. His necktie was a flaming red, adorned by a glittering
horseshoe pin, almost life-size.
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