The Girl and the Habit Page #2

"The Girl and the Habit" is a captivating short story by O. Henry that explores themes of love, addiction, and the complexities of human relationships. The narrative follows a young woman who finds herself torn between her feelings for a charming but irresponsible man and the societal expectations that bind her. Through O. Henry's signature wit and unexpected twists, the story delves into how habits can shape our lives and choices, ultimately leading to poignant revelations about self-discovery and the pursuit of genuine connection.

• Short story

								

his forehead with beef tea and chafing his hands with something frappé
out of a chafing-dish. Mr. McRamsey sighed, lost a vest button, gazed
with deep gratitude upon his fair preserveress, and then recovered
consciousness.

To the Seaside Library all who are anticipating a romance! Banker
McRamsey had an aged and respected wife, and his sentiments toward Miss
Merriam were fatherly. He talked to her for half an hour with
interest—not the kind that went with his talks during business hours.
The next day he brought Mrs. McRamsey down to see her. The old couple
were childless—they had only a married daughter living in Brooklyn.

To make a short story shorter, the beautiful cashier won the hearts of
the good old couple. They came to Hinkle’s again and again; they
invited her to their old-fashioned but splendid home in one of the East
Seventies. Miss Merriam’s winning loveliness, her sweet frankness and
impulsive heart took them by storm. They said a hundred times that Miss
Merriam reminded them so much of their lost daughter. The Brooklyn
matron, née Ramsey, had the figure of Buddha and a face like the ideal
of an art photographer. Miss Merriam was a combination of curves,
smiles, rose leaves, pearls, satin and hair-tonic posters. Enough of
the fatuity of parents.

A month after the worthy couple became acquainted with Miss Merriam,
she stood before Hinkle one afternoon and resigned her cashiership.

“They’re going to adopt me,” she told the bereft restaurateur. “They’re
funny old people, but regular dears. And the swell home they have got!
Say, Hinkle, there isn’t any use of talking—I’m on the à la carte to
wear brown duds and goggles in a whiz wagon, or marry a duke at least.
Still, I somehow hate to break out of the old cage. I’ve been
cashiering so long I feel funny doing anything else. I’ll miss joshing
the fellows awfully when they line up to pay for the buckwheats and.
But I can’t let this chance slide. And they’re awfully good, Hinkle; I
know I’ll have a swell time. You owe me nine-sixty-two and a half for
the week. Cut out the half if it hurts you, Hinkle.”

And they did. Miss Merriam became Miss Rosa McRamsey. And she graced
the transition. Beauty is only skin-deep, but the nerves lie very near
to the skin. Nerve—but just here will you oblige by perusing again the
quotation with which this story begins?

The McRamseys poured out money like domestic champagne to polish their
adopted one. Milliners, dancing masters and private tutors got it.
Miss—er—McRamsey was grateful, loving, and tried to forget Hinkle’s. To
give ample credit to the adaptability of the American girl, Hinkle’s
did fade from her memory and speech most of the time.

Not every one will remember when the Earl of Hitesbury came to East
Seventy–––– Street, America. He was only a fair-to-medium earl, without
debts, and he created little excitement. But you will surely remember
the evening when the Daughters of Benevolence held their bazaar in the
W––––f-A––––a Hotel. For you were there, and you wrote a note to Fannie
on the hotel paper, and mailed it, just to show her that—you did not?
Very well; that was the evening the baby was sick, of course.

At the bazaar the McRamseys were prominent. Miss Mer—er—McRamsey was
exquisitely beautiful. The Earl of Hitesbury had been very attentive to
her since he dropped in to have a look at America. At the charity
bazaar the affair was supposed to be going to be pulled off to a
finish. An earl is as good as a duke. Better. His standing may be
lower, but his outstanding accounts are also lower.

Our ex-young-lady-cashier was assigned to a booth. She was expected to
sell worthless articles to nobs and snobs at exorbitant prices. The
proceeds of the bazaar were to be used for giving the poor children of
the slums a Christmas din––––Say! did you ever wonder where they get
the other 364?

Miss McRamsey—beautiful, palpitating, excited, charming,
radiant—fluttered about in her booth. An imitation brass network, with
a little arched opening, fenced her in.

Along came the Earl, assured, delicate, accurate, admiring—admiring
greatly, and faced the open wicket.

“You look chawming, you know—’pon my word you do—my deah,” he said,
beguilingly.

Miss McRamsey whirled around.

“Cut that joshing out,” she said, coolly and briskly. “Who do you think
you are talking to? Your check, please. Oh, Lordy!—”

Patrons of the bazaar became aware of a commotion and pressed around a
certain booth. The Earl of Hitesbury stood near by pulling a pale blond
and puzzled whisker.

“Miss McRamsey has fainted,” some one explained.
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