THE GARDEN OF EDEN

After the Introduction of Modern Bath-tubs

George Hibbard

REGINALD PERCIVAL VAN VECHTEN splashed in his bath.

He was in a state of,—he was absolutely,—he was without—in other words he was in the condition in which any one is when taking a bath. If not surrounded by the magnificence of Rome at the time of the Caesars he had about him the sumptuous luxury of a modern bachelor apartment. The white tiling was more shining than any marble; the heavy silver plating more resplendent than any imperial adornment. While not attended by slaves, in the place of such clumsy servitors he received the ministrations of a trained English valet who had just left him. Nevertheless Reginald Percival's expression was as majestically gloomy as a man may have when he is entirely—when he is altogether—in short when he is taking a bath.

His mind was manifestly ill at ease. As he dashed the water from his eyes he frowned gloomily. Care, which, the ancients tell us, rode with the horseman and accompanied the mighty in their chariots—as it does to-day in their automobiles—had clearly followed him even into his bath. He was troubled and the vindictive manner in which he doused himself with the cold water showed it. Something was amiss. All was clearly awry.

Just then the telephone in his adjoining bedroom jangled.

The modern world with its manifest advantages has acquired in its rapid advance many new methods of annoyance. The call of the telephone when one is entirely—when one is in one's bath, is one of these. No exquisite of ancient Rome need have feared such an interruption. Reginald Percival at this moment was directly confronted by one of the crises of an advanced civilization. At first, like any one else, he paid no attention to the jingle. Watkins might return to the next room at any moment. The telephone rang again. Though that marvel of science has been in existence so short a time, the period of its use has been sufficient to engrain in human nature an instinct to obey its summons. The greatest magnate in his office, if his secretary is absent, will swear—and answer it. Reginald Percival swore, but did not respond. Insofar his character surmounted habit. A third time the insistent instrument rang out its behest. Reginald PercivaPs flesh was unwilling but his spirit was weak. No man of to-day, in the insistent life of the present, can disregard three calls of the telephone.

REGINALD PERCIVAL sprang from his bath and hastened to take up the receiver. He had not put—he had not stopped—in brief he stood there just as he came from the tub with only a bath towel in his hand. " Go to the devil" was the expression which had taken form in his mind as a fit answer to the telephone.

"Well," he shouted angrily into the black orifice of the receiver.

A voice came back as soft and sweet as the flower-perfumed breeze of an early spring morning, with all of the freshness of the dawn though it was five minutes past eleven.

"Oh, it's you."

Reginald Percival was covered with confusion—and nothing else—as he rapidly considered his situation.

"Yes—yes," he answered hastily.

"You could not deceive me, if you tried."

Reginald Percival felt an earnest wish that in one particular at least he might be able to maintain concealment.

"I hope I am not disturbing you," the voice cooed on delectably.

"No—no—not at all," he declared eagerly.

"Didn't you call me? Didn't you want to speak to me?"

"No—yes—yes. I mean not at this moment. I should say I wanted to see you and speak to you very much but—" he continued confusedly.

"It was this way," ran on the voice distractedly. "My telephone rang and when I went to it the central told me that it was a mistake and then I was afraid that it might have been you after all and that by some stupid blunder you might have the idea that I wouldn't speak to you. So I called you up at once. After the misunderstanding of last night I wanted to tell you—"

"Did you really?" he cried delightedly.

Though Watkins had closed the windows of the bedroom they had been open all night and the chill of the early November morning was in the air. Reginald Percival shivered.

"I WANTED—I was willing to hear what you were going to say," went on the voice more guardedly. "Of course I couldn't help it if some one came up when we were on the stairs and asked me to dance. I couldn't refuse without appearing too much to wish to stay and talk to you. Of course I didn't want to go. You must have been able to see that with your naked eye—"

Reginald Percival started violently and instinctively drew back from the instrument. He recovered himself immediately and replied:

"Oh, yes—yes—of course."

"If you hadanything important tosay I don't want you to think that I didn't want to listen."

"You know I had," he asserted quickly. "I had just begun. I'd been getting up courage for a long time and then to have that happen— It was easy for me to believe you wanted to get away. That was why I cleared out and didn't see you or speak to you again all of the evening."

"Then there was something—important."

"Indeed there was—for me," he declared anxiously as he drew the bath towel about him.

"I had an idea that perhaps I was wrong in imagining—" began the charming voice appealingly.

The cold of the room had apparently grown greater. Drops of water which had fallen from his hair still clung to him and seemed to be freezing to various portions of his person. Reginald struggled manfully, but he was unable to control himself and sneezed violently.

"You haven't taken cold," the voice demanded solicitously.

"I haven't had any cold," he answered truthfully.

"You must be very careful, on these chilly mornings," came the gentle admonition. "As I said, I was afraid that I was wrong and I was troubled—and," the last of the sentence came hurriedly, "I wanted to know at once."

"YOU know you weren't wrong. You must know what I was going to tell you."

"Oh," the voice exclaimed protestingly.

"You must have seen," continued Reginald boldly, "as you just said, with a naked eye—"

There was a slight rattling and confusion at the other end of the line. A moment of silence ensued. Reginald waited tremulously.

"I am so sorry," the voice broke forth immediately. "I was so clumsy. I dropped the receiver. I am thankful the instrument isn't broken. Can you hear me?"

"Yes," assured Reginald Percival, "and I am sure that you must know what I have to say to you."

"How can I, unless you tell me?" the voice urged imploringly.

"It's just what I have been telling you," he went on, " in one way and another for a long time. That you are the only one—"

A bath towel is not a very large or a very sufficient garment. With a quick movement Reginald strove to drape it about his body.

"Yes—yes," encouraged the sweet voice expectantly.

"I was going to say it differently last night. But it's just that you and I've been awfully miserable. You know how I love you," he cried, forgetful of everything. "I could be so happy—"

"Why shouldn't you be?" the voice inquired guilelessly and beguilingly.

"I can't, unless you—"

"Oh, if it depends on me, why, you know there isn't any reason."

"Do you mean that? It's all right, really?" he asked triumphantly. "You will?"

"Of course, you goose. I've been just as unhappy—more—more," the voice laughed joyously. "But now that it's all settled I'm perfectly blissful.

"I'm coming to see you right away," he declared.

"Well, not this very instant," the voice replied with a little catch and a break of laughter.

"Why, no, not just this instant," he answered. "I'd be arrested. You see—rno— I've got nothing—I—I just jumped out of my bath."

"YOU did!" said the voice, in surprise.

"Yes—why do you speak so strangely? —your voice—"

"I don't know whether I can tell you, my teeth are chattering so."

"Whv?"

"Why—I did, too."

"Did what?"

"I did just as you did—when the telephone rang, jumped out of my bath—and, oh, I am so cold."

"Because you—because you—"

"Exactly," the voice answered brokenly. "Because, I— But come at twelve."

"All right."

A moment followed during which neither spoke. It was as if both of them were unwilling to stop.

"Be certain to put enough on," at length said the voice. "The morning is very cold. Oh, hasn't this been awful?"

"What?" he asked.

"Our talking—so."

"Awful? Not at all," he answered ecstatically. "It's the Garden of Eden."