Petralto's Love Story

I am addicted to making strange friendships, to liking people whom I
have no conventional authority to like--people out of "my set," and not
always of my own nationality. I do not say that I have always been
fortunate in these ventures; but I have had sufficient splendid
exceptions to excuse the social aberration, and make me think that all
of us might oftener trust our own instincts, oftener accept the friends
that circumstance and opportunity offer us, with advantage. At any rate,
the peradventure in chance associations has always been very attractive
to me.

In some irregular way I became acquainted with Petralto Garcia. I
believe I owed the introduction to my beautiful hound, Lutha; but, at
any rate, our first conversation was quite as sensible as if we had gone
through the legitimate initiation. I know it was in the mountains, and
that within an hour our tastes and sympathies had touched each other at
twenty different points.

Lutha walked beside us, showing in his mien something of the proud
satisfaction which follows a conviction of having done a good thing. He
looked first at me and then at Petralto, elevating and depressing his
ears at our argument, as if he understood all about it. Perhaps he did;
human beings don't know everything.

People have so much time in the country that it is little wonder that
our acquaintance ripened into friendship during the holidays, and that
one of my first visits when I had got settled for the winter was to
Petralto's rooms. Their locality might have cooled some people, but not
me. It does not take much of an education in New York life to find out
that the pleasantest, loftiest, handsomest rooms are to be found in the
streets not very far "up town;" comfortably contiguous to the best
hotels, stores, theatres, picture galleries, and all the other
necessaries of a pleasant existence.

He was just leaving the door for a ride in the park, and we went
together. I had refused the park twice within an hour, and had told
myself that nothing should induce me to follow that treadmill procession
again, yet when he said, in his quiet way, "You had better take half an
hour's ride, Jack," I felt like going, and I went.

Now just as we got to the Fifth Avenue entrance, a singular thing
happened. Petralto's pale olive face flushed a bright crimson, his eyes
flashed and dropped; he whipped the horse into a furious gallop, as if
he would escape something; then became preternaturally calm, drew
suddenly up, and stood waiting for a handsome equipage which was
approaching. Its occupants were bending forward to speak to him. I had
no eyes for the gentleman, the girl at his side was so radiantly
beautiful.

I heard Petralto