Transplant the Oriental to the Occident, or in plain words bring a nice-looking girl from the East to New York, for instance, and nine times out of ten there is sure to be something doing. Most of the doings, to be sure, are under the rose, but every once in a while some hint bobs to the surface and the news is wafted about by every breeze of a whisper.

In his very handsomely appointed suite of apartments on the upper West Side is a young fellow who has good enough blood in his veins to be game and take his medicine, and with sense enough to keep his mouth shut. Across the bridge of his nose are three knife cuts made by a blade that was very keen, which was held by a hand that knew its business. His doctor tells him that it is not at all serious, even though inconvenient—you know how doctors talk when there is a good fat fee at the other end of the line. He also says that there is nothing in the world that will prevent and eradicate those three disfiguring scars, even after the wound has been thoroughly healed and every possible surgical precaution taken.

And there’s the rub.

Through all the rest of his life this man, upon whom the world has been smiling since his birth, will be marked with the signs of his folly.

So much for the present.

Now for the recent past.

The woman was a Syrian beauty with sloe eyes and an olive skin that was like a piece of copper-hued satin, so soft and smooth and free from blemish was it. There was a faint flush of red in her cheeks, too, as if the hot blood was trying to break through the tender skin. Her lips were red and full, and because of all that riot of color her teeth showed whiter than they really were. She had, besides, small feet and slim, trim ankles.

Any wise man will appreciate that and understand why they are brought into this story. Up to the age of twenty-five the male animal looks at the female face and is satisfied. After that no such casual scrutiny satisfies him. First face, hair and general contour, then ankles, and often it is the last view which does the work or turns the trick, which is the same thing, only it is expressed differently. This is with the assumption, of course, that the man has enough discrimination to want quality, not quantity. Quantity is unwieldy and unsatisfactory from every viewpoint except from that of the gentleman who is in the butcher business, and who wants a standing advertisement for his shop. Embonpoint is all right in sausages but not in women, excepting—and that is understood—those on dime museum platforms.

The first name of the lady was Dekka, the rest was unpronounceable and we’ll let it go at that. She was a seller of Oriental goods, not from a Tenderloin standpoint, but real merchandise such as is recognized by the law—laces, draperies, bits of cunningly embroidered silks, and even rugs, which she called carpets, with the accent on the first syllable. Her stock was carried in a dress suit case which was handled by her “brother,” who was also a Syrian, and he only resembled her because he, too, had black eyes, an olive skin and dark crispy hair, to say nothing of his small feet.

Day after day they went in and out of houses, flats and apartments, visiting none but the best, and calling an express wagon into service when a rug display was necessary. She was the brains of the combination and did all the selling. His job was done when he put the satchel down by her side. Then he effaced himself and was invisible until she was ready to exit, when he made a mysterious reappearance from somewhere.

And that’s the soup of the story; the roast follows.

The Jap valet to the young man of means and leisure announced to him one afternoon that a dark lady—makes you think of the queen of spades, doesn’t it?—wanted to see him and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Bring her in,” said Jimmy, who was feeling in just the right kind of a humor to see anyone, even a man to whom he owed money, and in a moment she had slipped into the room as lightly as a cat walking on wet grass. There was the sound of her French heels hitting the bare spots on the polished floor that was music to him, and he wondered what there was in the meeting of leather and wood that was so attractive and just a bit different from anything he had ever heard before.

She courtesied in a friendly, intimate sort of a way, and then spoke:

“Good day; the lady? Can I show her some laces? Very fine.”

There was just the faintest touch of an accent in her voice, but it was rather pleasant than otherwise, and it seemed to have a very soothing effect on him. “There is no lady here,” he laughed, “that is, not yet.”

“Ah, too bad, and such a nice place, too. It is so beautiful.”

She half turned as if to go, and he stepped toward her.

“What have you got to sell? I might buy something.”

“You are so kind; I have them here,” and she motioned to the next room. “My brother bring them, then he go ’way. It is very heavy to carry all the time.”

“Yama,” called he, “bring it in, whatever it is,” and in a moment the Jap came lugging the leather case.

Jimmy noted how deftly the shapely brown fingers unfastened the brass catches, and as she leaned over he found himself studying her with the eye of a man who has seen and known a great many women of all kinds and all nationalities with one or two exceptions, and one of the exceptions was Syrian. A faint perfume, the odor of which he failed to recognize, seemed to fill the room, and he knew it came from her, and he became suddenly aware that he was taking more interest in the saleswoman than he was in the goods she was about to offer him.

When the bag had been opened and the contents tumbled out promiscuously, without any attempt at order or display, she sat down on the rug beside them. She picked out a lace scarf and carefully smoothing out its folds held it before him.

“Very fine,” she said; “all made by hand, see?” and she pointed to the heavy embroidery.

“It’s all right,” he answered, but he wasn’t looking at the silk, he was looking straight in her eyes and wondering why it was he had never met a woman with eyes as black as those before.

“You are not looking,” she said.

“I am,” he replied.

“At the scarf, I mean.”

“No, there is something better.”

“But I am only selling the scarf to you,” and she began to fold it up while her cheeks became more red.

“What’s the price?” asked Jimmy.

“Only $6, and very cheap.”

“All right, I’ll take it; let me see what else you’ve got there.”

And presently they were both sitting on the rug, he on one side of the bag and she on the other. In a half hour he had spent one hundred dollars, but to save his life he couldn’t have told what it was he had bought and, what was more, he didn’t care.

He laid the crisp new bill on her knee, and as she began to fold up the remnant of her stock he asked questions.

“You said your brother went around with you. Is he really your brother or something else?”

“My own brother; why should I tell you a lie?”

“I don’t know except that there are a great many brothers and cousins in this world who are not brothers or cousins at all, except as a matter of convenience. You know, I think you are a nice little girl and I fancy I’m getting just a bit gone on you. I don’t mind buying things from you, but I should like it if you and I could be friends.”

By this time they were standing up; the suit case had been closed and it was still between them, as if it was a sort of a guardian. “Couldn’t you stay here and have a little lunch with me? We’ll have it right away and you’ll be away in an hour. Where’s your brother?”

“Oh, he always waits somewhere—outside, maybe.”

“In the other room?”

“Oh, no; sometimes in the hall and sometimes in the street; sometimes he goes away and comes back again.”

“Well, this time he can wait a little longer. Yama,” calling to the Jap, “get some lunch and hurry up.”

He picked up the barrier of a dress suit case and put it one side, then he walked over to her and putting his arm around her waist, pulled her toward him and kissed her squarely on the mouth.

“Oh,” she cried, “what are you doing?”

“Kissing you. I’ve bought your silks and now I’m ready to invest in kisses, and I find,” he remarked, as he kissed her again, “that your kisses are the best.”

The blood leaped to his brain, and he held her so tightly that it seemed as if he would crush her.

“You’ve made me fall in love with you,” he said, and that strange Oriental perfume which came to him from her seemed to make him mad. “I want you to go away with me; will you? We’ll go wherever you like, and you will not have to sell those things any more. You can have all the money to spend that you want and you will be a lady.”

Here was a picture strong enough to turn the head of any woman, much less a Syrian straight from peasant stock, brought into the world by accident, with a face like a Madonna and with a supple, pliant figure that made men turn around and look after her. A girl who had known what privation and hardship was, and who came of a race where women were born to be servants and made to wait on men, the masters. Her beauty had brought her nothing and now it had suddenly become an asset, a stock in trade of so great value that for the rest of her life she would know neither work, nor care, nor trouble. The blood rushing through her veins made her dizzy and her head fell forward as her eyes half closed. One brown arm crept up and around the neck of this strong, broad-shouldered American, and it kept her from falling to the floor in the excess of her emotion. He felt her going, and picking her up, carried her to the big armchair over in the corner, where she cuddled up like a rabbit. She was clasping and unclasping her fingers nervously as he stood looking at her and her half-closed eyes never once met his.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, bending over. “Can I do anything for you?”

“No,” she whispered; “I was only thinking of my brother.”

“You don’t want to mind him; he’s all right wherever he is.”

“Not that, but he might not want—he might not like you to—to love me,” and she looked up at him.

“We’ll take care of your brother all right. Because he is your brother I will do what I can for him. Why, I will——”

The voice of the Jap came from the other room just as Jimmy was settling himself on the edge of the big chair, and had his arm around the Syrian’s neck.

“No,” it said, “you wait; I see.”

There was an angry voice raised in expostulation, and then before the man could move the brother came bounding through the parted curtains. He paused for just one brief moment and then shrieked: “Dekka.” He said something else, too, but it was in his own language and only the woman understood, but whatever it was it made her shrink still lower in her seat and cover her face with her hands. He was on Jimmy like a cat, and three times, even though the frightened Jap was trying to pull him off, he cut, and each cut was across the bridge of the nose, and the knife blade went as true and sure to the mark as though it was in the hands of a surgeon on a patient who was under ether. Then with one firm grip on the wrist of the girl he dragged her to the door and out, while the faithful Yama was using the silk scarfs—the ones which had just been bought—trying to staunch the flow of blood.

And that’s the story.

And the moral of it is that every man should stick to his own race and his own blood, Caucasian to Caucasian and Oriental to Oriental, for there are some things in this world that don’t mix any more than oil and water.