As Marian sat daydreaming on the front step, a man she had never seen before strode by her house. "Hey, do the Shinns live around here somewhere?" he asked abruptly, coming to a halt.
"The Shinn home is on East Elm," Marian said politely, even though the stranger hadn't offered so much as a word of greeting. "This is West Elm."
"Aw, criminy," the stranger muttered, setting off again. Then he caught sight of the sign in the Paroos' parlor window. "Oh, so you're the piano teacher here in town! You must know about this fella Hill, forming a boys' band here."
At the mention of her love's name, Marian sprang to her feet and hurried over to the man with a smile on her face. "Yes!"
"Well, don't let that worry you no more," he said, waving a stack of papers in front of her face. "I've got the goods on him in spades, that swindling, two-bit thimblerigger! That's why I gotta see Shinn, I'm just passing through, and number eight only makes a fifteen minute water stop…" he trailed off as his eyes discovered her low neckline. "Ooh, I wish it was twenty. Sure could concentrate five minutes on you, girly-girl!"
His brazen leer made Marian wish she hadn't decided to wear her red dress that evening. Drat that she had abandoned her stubborn Iowan reserve! Influenced by Harold's amiable nature, she had been too generous in sharing her knowledge. "Who are you?" she asked the stranger coldly.
"Name's Charlie Cowell – anvil salesman!" he said proudly, dropping his suitcase. Its contents clanked loudly as they hit the ground. "But just now I've got heavier things on my mind – I've got to protect the good name of the traveling fraternity from that swindler Hill!"
"Mr. Cowell," she began, "You're making a big mistake – "
"Mistake, my old lady's corset cover!" he retorted. Marian frowned at his tasteless idiom, but he breezed on, oblivious. "That fella's been the raspberry seed in my wisdom tooth just long enough! He's spoiled Illinois for me, but he's not gonna spoil Iowa. Hey, what kind of music teacher are you, anyway, you didn't see through him? He's no more professor than – "
"I know all about that!" she replied, stung into honesty by his insult to her intelligence. Mr. Cowell raised an eyebrow at her slip of the tongue, but Marian quickly regained her composure. "Band leaders are always called 'professor,' it's an academic courtesy! He's a fine director, and his scholastic – "
"Now wait a minute!" Mr. Cowell interrupted, incredulous. "Fine director? Tell me, you heard one note of music from any band?"
Marian had to admit she had not. "Well, no, but – "
"But nothing, girly-girl!" he said dismissively. "He never formed a band in his life – and you think he ever will? Not on your previous existence!"
She tried again. "If you'll just listen to me for a minute – "
"I'd like to," he said salaciously, giving her breasts a longing look as he picked up his suitcase. "I'd like to do more than that, if I had the time…"
Charlie Cowell may have been an honest salesman attempting to uphold the decorum of his profession, but everything about him – from his tacky suit to his coarse demeanor – made Marian's skin crawl. She would not let Harold suffer the ignominy of being exposed by this vile man. I must find some way to distract him! she thought desperately.
As if by divine Providence, Marian heard the faint strains of a provocative tango coming from her parlor. With a sly grin, she grabbed the salesman's arm. "Wait a minute, Mr. Cowell. You don't know me very well – yet!" Daringly, she shimmied her shoulders.
Charlie Cowell dropped his suitcase with a loud plonk. "Is that an invitation, girly-girl?"
"No! I mean, I don't know you – " she faltered. How on earth did a woman tempt a man further without going too far herself?
His interest waned. "Eh – I'd need more time anyway!"
For a moment, Marian was at a loss as to what to do to entice him to stay. Think of Sirens, think of Salome dancing before King Herod! her mind cried. For heaven's sake, think of the heroines in any Eleanor Glyn novel!
She ran over to Mr. Cowell and pulled him into an embrace. "What I mean is – as well as I'd like to," she simpered, stroking his shoulders.
He grinned. "Oh, there's no trouble there, girly-girl!"
Suppressing her disgust, Marian feigned interest in the snooze-worthy fact that he sold anvils for a living. As he boasted about his selling prowess, she circled him in a tantalizing tango. Mr. Cowell followed her swiftly as a fox stalking a robin, but Marian made sure to stay just out of his reach.
However, she dragged things out a bit too long – the salesman came to his senses again. "What am I doing? If I miss that train I'll lose my job, and I've got to leave word about that fella Hill!"
Marian chased after him. "Leave word with me," she said seductively.
"Not on your tintype, girly-girl!" he scoffed. "How do I know you'll deliver these letters?"
"Try me!" Steeling her nerve, Marian seized Mr. Cowell by the lapels of his suit-coat and pressed her lips to his.
The salesman responded enthusiastically to her embrace, dipping her so he could deepen their kiss. Marian squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to retch when she tasted his stale breath – the man positively reeked of tobacco!
After what seemed like an excruciating eternity, a train chugged somewhere in the distance. Relieved, Marian pushed Mr. Cowell away. "There's your train – now run for it!" she said contemptuously, darting back to her front porch.
"Why, you double-dealing little – !" He chased after her. Marian turned to deliver one of her stinging remarks, but he spoke too quickly. "Who do you think you're protecting? That guy has got a gal in every county in Illinois, and he's taken it away from every one of them – and that's a hundred and two counties! Not counting the piano teachers like you he cozies up to, just to keep your mouths shut! Neither one of you have heard the last of me, girly-girl!" With that, Mr. Cowell stormed off.
Marian's triumphant expression faded into a look of stunned dismay. The salesman's words had shattered the lovely dream-bubble cocooning her from the stark, unromantic truth: She had flirted with a complete stranger to shield a faithless womanizer. Marian would have been furious if she wasn't so embarrassed and, well, hurt. She knew Harold was no stranger to amour, but she figured he had courted other women as chivalrously as he had her. Apparently, Harold Hill was little more than a gigolo masquerading as a gentleman. How could she have been so foolish?
The members of the school board ambled by, pausing in their rendition of Lida Rose to greet her, but Marian couldn't summon the energy to engage in such idle pleasantries. All I want is a straightforward and honest man, she had told her mother a few weeks ago. Perhaps she should have been more careful about what she wished for – the straightforward and honest Charlie Cowell had destroyed her happiness.
"Marian!" Mrs. Paroo's shrill voice called. The front door opened, and Marian's mother rushed out. "Marian, dear, who was you talking – why, Professor Hill!"
The librarian turned. Harold Hill was standing on their front walk, a broad smile on his handsome face. He looked positively dashing in his sleek summer suit. "Mrs. Paroo – the top of the evening!" he said cheerfully.
Shamefaced, Marian lowered her eyes as Professor Hill's gaze settled on her. "Miss Marian," he said in a more tender voice.
"You and Marian come up and set for awhile," Mrs. Paroo said with a knowing smile. "I've got some jelly on the stove."
Marian was in no mood for her mother's coy matchmaking attempts. "There's no jelly on the stove, Mama," she said crossly.
Mrs. Paroo glared at her daughter. "Well, I'll put some on!" she retorted, and hastened inside.
And Marian was alone with Professor Hill.
"Well, shall we 'set,' as your mother said?" he suggested with a good-natured gleam in his eyes.
"Really, I don't – " she demurred.
"You did ask me to call, remember?" he said insistently.
"Did I?" Marian paused, discomfited. Had she really been so forward? She seemed to recall he was the one who had requested permission to visit her at home. But it didn't matter. She had said yes, and now Harold Hill was on her front porch, hovering over her shoulder as intently as a lovesick swain. "I didn't mean anything."
"Oh, now Miss Marian, I'm not suggesting that your invitation inferred anything but academic enlightenment," he assured her.
Marian looked at him with surprised eyes.
"The Think System," he reminded her with a smile. As she turned away from his hypnotic gaze, Harold reached out and rested his hand on a porch pillar, his arm brushing her shoulders in the subtlest of embraces. "I've been by your house a time or two to try and explain it to you, but there always seem to be people around – ladies mostly, I thought?"
"Yes," she replied, trying to steady her breathing. "Mrs. Squires, and several of the other ladies…"
Harold leaned even closer. "I'm glad," he said in a low voice, his warm breath tickling her ear. "I wouldn't want anyone beating my time."
Good heavens, how could a girl keep her head when Harold Hill spoke to her in such velvety, persuasive tones? It would have been so easy to slip right into his waiting arms and meet her mouth with his in a passionate kiss. But Marian must not succumb to temptation – she would not allow herself to become just another notch on his bedpost.
Still, she couldn't help but think of the difference between the two salesmen – while Mr. Cowell had looked her up and down like a piece of meat on a butcher's block, Harold's eyes remained riveted to her face. She knew from his heated stare and stealthily encroaching embrace that he desired her as much as Mr. Cowell did, but unlike Mr. Cowell, Harold had the courtesy to keep up the pretext of polite conversation. Even so, does it really matter? she asked herself sadly. Harold Hill may have wooed her in a debonair fashion and Charlie Cowell in a vulgar one, but in the end, they were both after the same thing.
So Marian said nothing, nor did she move. An awkward silence fell between them – it seemed that, at long last, the charming and clever Professor Hill had run out of things to say.