Wenona Gilman

Leonie, The Typewriter Wenona Gilman

The day was delicious! A warm, soft breeze, that seemed to suggest sunny Italy, or the luxurious indolence of far-off Japan, tinted the atmosphere with a golden hue. It rested like a halo upon the head of a young man who sat beside a desk, idly twisting a pen between his fingers. It was a beautiful head! Too beautiful for a man, too strong for a woman. From the large, velvety eyes, Italian in color and softness, but Mexican in their occasional gleams of thrilling brilliancy, to the clear complexion with the touch of crimson in the cheeks; from the dainty, curly hair that lay in tiny rings upon the broad, white brow, to the mouth, with its sweeping, silken mustache, the face was absolutely without flaw or blemish. And yet no man ever laughed at Lynde Pyne for his beauty, or would have thought of pronouncing him effeminate. "He is one of the best fellows in existence," they told each other at the club; "and it is a confounded shame that he was cut out of his uncle's will in the manner in which he was. There was never a more honorable man than Lynde Pyne, and for all he knows by what means Luis Kingsley came in possession of the money that is rightfully his, he never says a word, but works away, early and late, with but poor reward. It is a queer world that robs an honest man to give his birthright to a scoundrel." But Lynde Pyne was giving little thought to that as he sat dreamily twirling his pen on that golden day in June. His reflections were interrupted by the entrance of his office boy. "If you please, Mr. Pyne," he said respectfully, though not servilely, "there is a young lady here to see you." Lynde glanced up slowly, evidently not pleased at the interruption. "Her name?" "She is a typewriter!" "Oh! Show her in."