The Business of Life Read online

  CHAPTER VI

  When the sombre morning broke at last, Jacqueline awoke, sprang from herbed, and fluttered away about her dressing as blithely as an Aprillinnet in a hurry.

  She had just time to breakfast and catch her train, with the help ofheaven and a taxicab, and she managed to do it about the same momentthat Desboro, half a hundred miles away, glanced out of hisdressing-room window and saw the tall trees standing like spectres inthe winter fog, and the gravel on the drive shining wet and muddythrough melting snow. But he turned to the mirror again, whistling a gayair, and twisted his necktie into a smarter knot. Then he went out tothe greenhouses and snipped off enough carnations to make a great sheafof clove-scented blossoms for Jacqueline's room; and after that heproceeded through the other sections of the fragrant glass galleries,cutting, right and left, whatever he considered beautiful enough to doher fresh, young beauty honour.

  At the station, he saw her standing on the platform of the drawing-roomcar as the train thundered in, veil and raincoat blowing, just as he hadseen her there the first time she arrived at Silverwood station.

  The car steps were sheathed in ice; she had already ventured down alittle way when he reached her and offered aid; and she permitted him toswing her to the cinder-strewn ground.

  "Are you really here!" he exclaimed, oblivious of interested glancesfrom trainmen and passengers.

  They exchanged an impulsive hand-clasp. Both were unusually animated.

  "Are you well?" she asked, as though she had been away for months.

  "Yes. Are you? It's perfectly fine of you to come"--still retaining herhand--"I wonder if you know how glad I am to see you! I wonder if youreally do!"

  She started to say something, hesitated, blushed, then their handsparted, and she answered lightly:

  "What a very cordial welcome for a business girl on a horrid day! Youmustn't spoil me, Mr. Desboro."

  "I was afraid you might not come," he said; and indiscreet impulseprompted her to answer, as she had first answered him there on theplatform two weeks ago:

  "Do you suppose that mere weather could have kept me away from thefamous Desboro collection?"

  The charming malice in her voice, the delightful impertinence of herreply, so obviously at variance with fact, enchanted him. She wasconscious of its effect on him, and, already slightly excited, venturedto laugh at her own thrust as though challenging his self-conceit tobelieve that she had even grazed herself with the two-edged weapon.

  "Do I count for absolutely nothing?" he said.

  "Do you flatter yourself that I returned to see _you_?"

  "Let me believe it for just one second."

  "I don't doubt that you will secretly and triumphantly believe it allthe time."

  "If I dared----"

  "Is that sort of courage lacking in you, Mr. Desboro? I have heardotherwise. And how long are we going to remain here on this foggyplatform?"

  Here was an entirely new footing; but in the delightful glow of youthfulindiscretion she still maintained her balance lightly, mockingly.

  "Please tell me," she said, as they entered the car, and he drew the bigfur robe around her, "just how easily you believe in your ownoverpowering attractions. Do women encourage you in such modest faith inyourself? Or are you merely created that way?"

  "The house has been a howling wilderness without you," he said. "I admit_my_ loneliness, anyway."

  "_I_ admit nothing. Besides, I wasn't."

  "Is that true?"

  She laughed tormentingly, eyes and cheeks brilliant, now undisguisedlyon guard--her first acknowledgment that in this man she condescended todivine the hereditary adversary.

  "I mean to punish," said her eyes.

  "What an attack from a clear sky on a harmless young man," he said, atlast.

  "No, an attack from the fog on an insufferable egoist--an ambush, Mr.Desboro. And I thought a little sword-play might do your complacent witsa service. Has it?"

  "But you begin by a dozen thrusts, then beat down my guard, and cuff meabout with blade and pommel----"

  "I had to. Now, does your vanity believe that my return to Silverwoodwas influenced by your piteous appeal over the wire--and your badtemper, too?"

  "No," he said solemnly.

  "Well, then! I came here partly to put my notes in better shape for Mr.Sissly, partly to clear up odds and ends and leave him a clear field toplow--in your persistent company," she added, with such engaging malicethat even the name of Sissly, which he hated, made him laugh.

  "You won't do that," he said confidently.

  "Do what, Mr. Desboro?"

  "Turn me over to anything named Sissly."

  "Indeed, I will--you and your celebrated collection! Of course you_could_ go South, but, judging from your devotion to the study ofancient armour----"

  "You don't mean it, do you?"

  "What? About your devotion?"

  "No, about Sissly."

  "Yes, I do. Listen to me, Mr. Desboro. I made up my mind that sleighing,and skating, and luncheon and tea, and--_you_, are not good for a busygirl's business career. I'm going to be very practical and very frankwith you. I don't belong here except on business, and you make it sopleasant and unbusinesslike for me that my conscience protests. You see,if the time I now take to lunch with you, tea with you, skate, sleigh,talk, listen, in your very engaging company is properly employed, I canattend to yards and yards of business in town. And I'm going to. I meanit, please," as he began to smile.

  His smile died out. He said, quietly:

  "Doesn't our friendship count for anything?"

  She looked at him; shrugged her shoulders:

  "Oh, Mr. Desboro," she said pleasantly, "does it, _really_?"

  The blue eyes were clear and beautiful, and a little grave; only theupcurled corners of her mouth promised anything.

  The car drew up at the house; she sprang out and ran upstairs to herroom. He heard her in animated confab with Mrs. Quant for a few minutes,then she came down in her black business gown, with narrow edges of lawnat collar and cuffs, and the bright lock already astray on her cheek. Awhite carnation was tucked into her waist; the severe black of herdress, as always, made her cheeks and lips and golden hair morebrilliant by contrast.

  "Now," she said, "for my notes. And what are you going to do while I'mbusy?"

  "Watch you, if I may. You've heard about the proverbial cat?"

  "Care killed it, didn't it?"

  "Yes; but it had a good look at the Queen first."

  A smile touched her eyes and lips--a little wistfully.

  "You know, Mr. Desboro, that I like to waste time with you. Flatter yourvanity with that confession. And even if things were--different--butthey couldn't ever be--and I must work very hard if I'm ever going tohave any leisure in my old age. But come to the library for this lastday, and smoke as usual. And you may talk to amuse me, if you wish.Don't mind if I'm too busy to answer your folly in kind."

  They went together to the library; she placed the mass of notes in frontof her and began to sort them--turned for a second and looked around athim with adorable malice, then bent again to the task before her.

  "Miss Nevers!"

  "Yes?"

  "You will come to Silverwood again, won't you?"

  She wrote busily with a pencil.

  "Won't you?"

  She made some marginal notes and he looked at the charming profile introubled silence.

  "She turned leisurely.... 'Did you say anything recently,Mr. Desboro?'"]

  About ten minutes later she turned leisurely, tucking up the errantstrand of hair with her pencil:

  "Did you say anything recently, Mr. Desboro?"

  "Out of the depths, yes. The voice in the wilderness as usual wentunheeded. I wished to explain to you how we might give up our skatingand sleighing and everything except the bare necessities--and you couldstill come to Silverwood on business----"

  "What are the 'bare necessities'?"

  "Your being here is one----"

  "A
nswer me seriously, please."

  "Food, then. We must eat."

  She conceded that much.

  "We've got to motor to and from the station!"

  She admitted that, too.

  "Those," he pointed out, "are the bare necessities. We can give upeverything else."

  She sat looking at him, playing absently with her pencil. After a while,she turned to her desk again, and, bending over it, began to makemeaningless marks with her pencil on the yellow pad.

  "What is the object," she said, "of trying to make me forget that Iwouldn't be here at all except on business?"

  "Do you think of that every minute?"

  "I--must."

  "It isn't necessary."

  "It is imperative, Mr. Desboro--and you know it."

  She wrote steadily for a while, strapped a bundle of notes with anelastic band, laid it aside, and turned around, resting her arm on theback of the chair. Blue eyes level with his, she inspected himcuriously. And, if the tension of excitement still remained, all herhigh spirits and the indiscreet impulses of a gay self-confidence hadvanished. But curiosity remained--the eternal, insatiable curiosity ofthe young.

  How much did this man really mean of what he said to her? What did hisliking for her signify other than the natural instinct of an idle youngman for any pretty girl? What was he going to do about it? For sheseemed to be conscious that, sooner or later, somewhere, sometime, hewould do something further about it.

  Did he mean to make love to her sometime? Was he doing it now? Itresembled the preliminaries; she recognised them--had been aware of themalmost from the very first.

  Men had made love to her before--men in her own world, men in his world.She had learned something since her father died--not a great deal;perhaps more from hearsay than from experience. But some unpleasantknowledge had been acquired at first hand; two clients of her father'shad contributed, and a student, named Harroun, and an amateur of softpaste statuettes, the Rev. Bertie Dawley.

  Innocently and wholesomely equipped to encounter evil, cool and cleareyed mistress of herself so far, she had felt, with happy contempt, thather fate was her own to control, and had wondered what the word"temptation" could mean to any woman.

  What Cynthia had admitted made her a little wiser, but stillincredulous. Cold, hunger, debts, loneliness--these were not enough, asCynthia herself had said. Nor, after all, was Cynthia's liking forCairns. Which proved conclusively that woman is the arbiter of her owndestiny.

  Desboro, one knee crossed over the other, sat looking into the fire,which burned in the same fireplace where he had recently immolated thefrivolous souvenirs of the past.

  Perhaps some gay ghost of that scented sacrifice took shape for a momentin the curling smoke, for he suddenly frowned and passed his hand overhis eyes in boyish impatience.

  Something--the turn of his head and shoulders--the shape of them--shedid not know what--seemed to set her heart beating loudly, ridiculously,without any apparent reason on earth. Too much surprised to bedisturbed, she laid her slim hand on her breast, then against herthroat, till her pulses grew calmer.

  Resting her chin on her arm, she gazed over her shoulder into the fire.He had laid another log across the flames; she watched the bark catchfire, dully conscious, now, that her ideas were becoming asirresponsible and as reasonless as the sudden stirring of her heart hadbeen.

  For she was thinking how odd it would be if, like Cynthia, she too, evercame to care about a man of Desboro's sort. She'd see to it that shedidn't; that was all. There were other men. Better still, there were tobe no men; for her mind fastidiously refused to consider the only sortwith whom she felt secure--her intellectual inferiors whose moralworthiness bored her to extinction.

  Musing there, half turned on her chair, she saw Desboro rise, stilllooking intently into the fire, and stand so, his well-made, gracefulfigure, in silhouette, edged with the crimson glow.

  "What do you see in it, Mr. Desboro?"

  He turned instantly and came over to her:

  "A bath of flames would be very popular," he said, "if burning didn'thurt. I was just thinking about it--how to invent----"

  She quoted: "'But I was thinking of a plan to dye one's whiskersgreen.'"

  He said: "I suppose you think me as futile as that old man 'a-settin' ona gate.'"

  "Your pursuits seem to be about as useful as his."

  "Why should I pursue things? I don't want 'em."

  "You are hopeless. There is pleasure even in pursuit of anything, nomatter whether you ever attain it or not. I will never attain wisdom,but it's a pleasure to pursue it."

  "It's a pleasure even to pursue pleasure--and it's the only pleasure inpleasure," he said, so gravely that for a moment she thought with horrorthat he was trying to be precious. Then the latent glimmer in his eyesset them laughing, and she rose and went over to the sofa and curled upin one corner, abandoning all pretense of industry.

  "Once," she said, "I knew a poet who emitted such precious thoughts. Hewas the funniest thing; he had the round, pale, ancient eyes of anAfrican parrot, a pasty countenance, and a derby hat resting on top of agreat bunch of colourless curly hair. And that's the way _he_ talked,Mr. Desboro!"

  He seated himself on the other arm of the sofa:

  "Did you adore him?"

  "At first. He was a celebrity. He did write some pretty things."

  "What woke you up?"

  She blushed.

  "I thought so," observed Desboro.

  "Thought what?"

  "That he came out of his trance and made love to you."

  "How did you know? Wasn't it dreadful! And he'd always told me that hehad never experienced an emotion except when adoring the moon. He was avery dreadful young man--perfectly horrid in his ideas--and I sent himabout his business very quickly; and I remember being a littlefrightened and watching him from the window as he walked off down thestreet in his soiled drab overcoat and the derby hat on his frizzlyhair, and his trousers too high on his ankles----"

  Desboro was so immensely amused at the picture she drew that her prettybrows unbent and she smiled, too.

  "What did he want of you?" he asked.

  "I didn't fully understand at the time----" she hesitated, then, with anangry blush: "He asked me to go to Italy with him. And he said hecouldn't marry me because he had already espoused the moon!"

  Desboro's laughter rang through the old library; and Jacqueline was notquite certain whether she liked the way he took the matter or not.

  "I know him," said Desboro. "I've seen him about town kissing women'shands, in company with a larger and fatter one. Isn't his name Munger?"

  "Yes," she said.

  "Certainly. And the fat one's name is Waudle. They were a hot team atfashionable literary stunts--the Back Alley Club, you know."

  "No, I don't know."

  "Oh, it's just silly; a number of fashionable and wealthy young men andwomen pin on aprons, now and then, and paint and model lumps of wet clayin several severely bare studios over some unfragrant stables. Theyproudly call it The Back Alley Club."

  "Why do you sneer at it?"

  "Because it isn't the real thing. It's a strutting ground for thingslike Munger and Waudle, and all the rag-tag that is always sniffing andsnuffling at the back doors of the fine arts."

  "At least," she said, "they sniff."

  He said, good-humouredly: "Yes, and I don't even do that. Is that whatyou mean?"

  She considered him: "Haven't you any profession?"

  "I'm a farmer."

  "Why aren't you busy with it, then?"

  "I have been, disastrously. There was a sickening deficit this autumn."

  She said, with pretty scorn: "I'll wager I could make your farm pay."

  He smiled lazily, and indulgently. After a moment he said:

  "So the spouse of the moon wanted you to go to Italy with him?"

  She nodded absently: "A girl meets queer men in the world."

  "Did you ever meet any others?"

  She
looked up listlessly: "Yes, several."

  "As funny as the poet?"

  "If you call him funny."

  "I wonder who they were," he mused.

  "Did you ever hear of the Reverend Bertie Dawley?"

  "No."

  "He was one."

  "_That_ kind?"

  "Oh, yes. He collects soft paste figurines; he was a client of father's;but I found very soon that I couldn't go near him. He has a wife andchildren, too, and he keeps sending his wife to call on me. You knowhe's a good-looking young man, too, and I liked him; but I neverdreamed----"

  "Sure," he said, disgusted at his own sex--with the exception ofhimself.

  "That seems to be the way of it," she said thoughtfully. "You can't befriends with men; they all annoy you sooner or later in one way oranother!"

  "Annoy you? Do you mean make love to you?"

  "Yes."

  "_I_ don't; do I?"

  She bent her head and sat playing with the petals of the white carnationdrooping on her breast.

  "No," she said calmly. "You don't annoy me."

  "Would it seriously annoy you if I did make love to you some day?" heasked, lightly.

  Instinct was whispering hurriedly to her: "Here it is at last. Dosomething about it, and do it quick!" She waited until her heart beatmore regularly, then:

  "You couldn't annoy--make love--to a girl you really don't care for.That is very simple, isn't it?"

  "Suppose I did care for you."

  She looked up at him with troubled eyes, then lowered them to theblossom from which her fingers were detaching petal after petal.

  "If you did really care, you wouldn't tell me, Mr. Desboro."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it would not be fair to me." A flush of anger--or she thoughtit was, brightened her cheeks. "This is nonsense," she said abruptly."And I'll tell you another thing; I can't come here again. You know Ican't. We talk foolishness--don't you know it? And there's anotherreason, anyway."

  "What reason?"

  "The _real_ reason," she said, clenching both hands. "You know what itis and so do I--and--and I'm tired of pretending that the truth isn'ttrue."

  "What is the truth?"

  She had turned her back on him and was staring out of the windows intothe mist.

  "The truth is," she answered deliberately, "that you and I can not befriends."

  "Why?"

  "Because we can't be! Because--men are always men. There isn't any wayfor men and women to be friends. Forgive me for saying it. But it isquite true. A business woman in your employment--can't forget that areal friendship with you is impossible. That is why, from the verybeginning, I wanted it to be purely a matter of business between us. Ididn't really wish to skate with you, or do anything of that kind withyou. I'd rather not lunch with you; I--I had rather you drew theline--and let me draw it clearly, cleanly, and without mistake--as Idraw it between myself and my employees. If you wish, I can continue tocome here on that basis until my work is finished. Otherwise, I shallnot come again."

  Her back was still toward him.

  "Very well," he said, bluntly.

  She heard him rise and walk toward the door; sat listening withoutturning her head, already regretting what she had said. And now shebecame conscious that her honesty with herself and with him had been amistake, entailing humiliation for her--the humiliation of letting himunderstand that she couldn't afford to care for him, and that she didalready. She had thought of him first, and of herself last--had concededa hopeless situation in order that her decision might not hurt hisvanity.

  It had been a bad mistake. And now he might be thinking that she hadtried to force him into an attitude toward herself which she could notexpect, or--God knew what he might be thinking.

  Dismayed and uncertain, she stood up nervously as he reentered the roomand came toward her, holding out his hand.

  "I'm going to town," he said pleasantly. "I won't bother you any more.Remain; come and go as you like without further fear of my annoying you.The servants are properly instructed. They will be at your orders. I'msorry--I meant to be more agreeable. Good-bye, Miss Nevers."

  She laid her hand in his, lifelessly, then withdrew it. Dumb, dreadfullyconfused, she looked up at him; then, as he turned coolly away, aninarticulate sound of protest escaped her lips. He halted and turnedaround.

  "It isn't fair--what you are doing--Mr. Desboro."

  "What else is there to do?"

  "Why do you ask me? Why must the burden of decision always rest withme?"

  "But my decision is that I had better go. I can't remain herewithout--annoying you."

  "Why can't you remain here as my employer? Why can't we enjoymatter-of-fact business relations? I ask no more than that--I want nomore. I am afraid you think I do expect more--that I expect friendship.It is impossible, unsuitable--and I don't even wish for it----"

  "I do," he said.

  "How can we be friends, from a social standpoint? There is nothing tobuild on, no foundation--nothing for friendship to subsist on----"

  "Could you and I meet anywhere in the world and become _less_ thanfriends?" he asked. "Tell me honestly. It is impossible, and you and Iboth know it."

  And, as she made no reply: "Friends--more than friends, possibly; neverless. And you know it, and so do I," he said under his breath.

  She turned sharply toward the window and looked out across the foggyhills.

  "If that is what you believe, Mr. Desboro, perhaps you had better go."

  "Do you send me?"

  "Always the decision seems to lie with me. Why do you not decide foryourself?"

  "I will; and for you, too, if you will let me relieve you of theburden."

  "I can carry my own burdens."

  Her back was still toward him. After a moment she rested her headagainst the curtained embrasure, as though tired.

  He hesitated; there were good impulses in him, but he went over to her,and scarcely meaning to, put one arm lightly around her waist.

  She laid her hands over her face, standing so, golden head lowered andher heart so violent that she could scarcely breathe.

  "Jacqueline."

  A scarcely perceptible movement of her head, in sign that she listened.

  "Are we going to let anything frighten us?" He had not meant to saythat, either. He was adrift, knew it, and meant to drop anchor in amoment. "Tell me honestly," he added, "don't you want us to be friends?"

  She said, her hands still over her face:

  "I didn't know how much I wanted it. I don't see, even now, how it canbe. Your own friends are different. But I'll try--if you wish it."

  "I do wish it. Why do you think my friends are so different from you?Because some happen to be fashionable and wealthy and idle? Besides, aman has many different kinds of friends----"

  She thought to herself: "But he never forgets to distinguish betweenthem. And here it is at last--almost. And I--I do care for him! And hereI am--like Cynthia--asking myself to pardon him."

  She looked up at him out of her hands, a little pale, then down at hisarm, resting loosely around her waist.

  "Don't hold me so, please," she said, in a low voice.

  "Of course not." But instead he merely took her slender hands betweenhis own, which were not very steady, and looked her straight in theeyes. Such men can do it, somehow. Besides, he really meant to controlhimself and cast anchor in a moment or two.

  "Will you trust me with your friendship?" he said.

  "I--seem to be doing it. I don't exactly understand what I am doing.Would you answer me one question?"

  "If I can, Jacqueline."

  "Then, friendship _is_ possible between a man and a woman, isn't it?"she insisted wistfully.

  "I don't know."

  "What! Why don't you know? It's merely a matter of mutual interest andrespect, isn't it?"

  "I've heard so."

  "Then isn't a friendship between us possible without anythingthreatening to spoil it? Isn't it to be just a matter of enjoyingtog
ether what interests each? Isn't it? Because I don't mind waivingsocial conditions that can't be helped, and conventions that we simplycan't observe."

  "Yes, you wonderful girl," he said under his breath, meaning to anchorat once. But he drifted on.

  "You know," she said, forcing a little laugh, "I _am_ rather wonderful,to be so honest with a man like you. There's so much about you that Idon't care for."

  He laughed, enchanted, still retaining her hands between his own, thepalms joined together, flat.

  "You're so wonderful," he said, "that you make the most wonderfulmasterpiece in the Desboro collection look like a forgery."

  She strove to speak lightly again: "Even the gilding on my hair is real.You didn't think so once, did you?"

  "You're all real. You are the most real thing I've ever seen in theworld!"

  She tried to laugh: "You mustn't believe that I've never before beenreal when I've been with you. And I may not be real again, for a longtime. Make the most of this moment of expansive honesty, Mr. Desboro.I'll remember presently that you are an hereditary enemy."

  "Have I ever acted that part?"

  "Not toward me."

  He reddened: "Toward whom?"

  "Oh," she said, with sudden impatience, "do you suppose I have anyillusions concerning the sort of man you are? But what do I care, aslong as you are nice to me?" she laughed, more confidently. "Men!" sherepeated. "I know something about them! And, knowing them, also, Inevertheless mean to make a friend of one of them. Do you think I'llsucceed?"

  He smiled, then bent lightly and kissed her joined hands.

  "Luncheon is served," came the emotionless voice of Farris from thedoorway. Their hands fell apart; Jacqueline blushed to her hair and gaveDesboro a lovely, abashed look.

  She need not have been disturbed. Farris had seen such things before.

  * * * * *

  That evening, Desboro went back to New York with her and took her to herown door in a taxicab.

  "Are you quite sure you can't dine with me?" he asked again, as theylingered on her doorstep.

  "I could--but----"

  "But you won't!"

  One of her hands lay lightly on the knob of the partly open door, andshe stood so, resting and looking down the dark street toward thedistant glare of electricity where Broadway crossed at right angles.

  "We have been together all day, Mr. Desboro. I'd rather not dine withyou--yet."

  "Are you going to dine all alone up there?" glancing aloft at thelighted windows above the dusky old shop.

  "Yes. Besides, you and I have wasted so much time to-day that I shall godown stairs to the office and do a little work after dinner. You see agirl always has to pay for her transgressions."

  "I'm terribly sorry," he said contritely. "Don't work to-night!"

  "Don't be sorry. I've really enjoyed to-day's laziness. Only it mustn'tbe like this to-morrow. And anyway, I knew I'd have to make it upto-night."

  "I'm terribly sorry," he said again, almost tenderly.

  "But you mustn't be, Mr. Desboro. It was worth it----"

  He looked up, surprised, flushing with emotion; and the quick colour inher cheeks responded. They remained very still, and confused, andsilent, as fire answered fire; suddenly aware how fast they had beendrifting.

  She turned, nervously, pushed open the door, and entered the vestibule;he held the door ajar for her while she fitted her key with unsteadyfingers.

  "So--thank you," she said, half turning around, "but I won't dine withyou--to-night."

  "Then, perhaps, to-morrow----"

  "Don't come into town with me to-morrow, Mr. Desboro."

  "I'm coming in anyway."

  "Why?"

  "There's an affair--a kind of a dance. There are always plenty of thingsto take me into town in the evenings."

  "Is that why you came in to-night?" She knew she should not have saidit.

  He hesitated, then, with a laugh: "I came in to town because it gave mean hour longer with you. Are you going to send me away now?" And herfolly was answered in kind.

  She said, confused and trying to smile: "You say things that you don'tmean. Evening, for us, must always mean 'good-night.'"

  "Why, Jacqueline?"

  "Because. Also, it is my hour of freedom. You wouldn't take that awayfrom me, would you?"

  "What do you do in the evenings?"

  "Sew, read, study, attend to the thousand wretched little details whichconcern my small household. And, sometimes, when I have wasted the day,I make it up at night. Because, whether I have enjoyed it or not, thisday _has_ been wasted."

  "But sometimes you dine out and go to the theatre and to dances andthings?"

  "Yes," she said gravely. "But you know there is no meeting ground therefor us, don't you?"

  "Couldn't you ask me to something?"

  "Yes--I could. But you wouldn't care for the people. You know it. Theyare not like the people to whom you are accustomed. They would only boreyou."

  "So do many people I know."

  "Not in the same way. Why do you ask me? You know it is better not." Sheadded smilingly: "There is neither wealth nor fashion nor intellectualnor social distinction to be expected among my friends----"

  She hesitated, and added quietly: "You understand that I am notcriticising them. I am merely explaining them to you. Otherwise, I'd askyou to dinner with a few people--I can only have four at a time, mydining room is so small----"

  "Ask me, Jacqueline!" he insisted.

  She shook her head; but he continued to coax and argue until she hadhalf promised. And now she stood, facing him irresolutely, conscious ofthe steady drift that was forcing her into uncharted channels with thispersuasive pilot who seemed to know no more of what lay ahead of themthan did she.

  But there was to be no common destination; she understood that. Sooneror later she must turn back toward the harbour they had left soirresponsibly together, her brief voyage over, her last adventure withthis man ended for all time.

  And now, as the burden of decision still seemed to rest upon her, sheoffered him her hand, saying good-night; and he took it once more andheld it between both of his. Instantly the impending constraint closedin upon them; his face became grave, hers serious, almost apprehensive.

  "You have--have made me very happy," he said. "Do you know it,Jacqueline?"

  "Yes."

  A curious lassitude was invading her; she leaned sideways against thedoor frame, as though tired, and stood so, one hand abandoned to him,gazing into the lamp-lit street.

  "Good-night, dear," he whispered.

  "Good-night."

  She still gazed into the lamp-lit darkness beyond him, her hand limp inhis; and he saw her blue eyes, heavy lidded and dreamy, and the strandof hair curling gold against her cheek.

  When he kissed her, she dropped her head, covering her face with herforearm, not otherwise stirring--as though the magic pageant of her fatewhich had been gathering for two weeks had begun to move at last,passing vision-like through her mind with a muffled uproar--sweeping on,on, brilliant, disarrayed, timed by the deafening beating of her heart.

  Dully she realised that it was here at last--all that she haddreaded--if dread be partly made of hope!

  "Are you crying?" he said, unsteadily.

  She lifted her face from her arm, like a dazed child awaking.

  "You darling," he whispered.

  Eyes remote, she stood watching unseen things in the darkness beyondhim.

  "Must I go, Jacqueline?"

  "Yes."

  "You are very tired, aren't you?"

  "Yes."

  "You won't sit up and work, will you?"

  "No."

  "Will you go straight to bed?"

  She nodded slowly, yielding to him as he drew her into his arms.

  "To-morrow, then?" he asked under his breath.

  "Yes."

  "And the next day, and the next, and next, and--always, Jacqueline?" hedemanded, almost fiercely.

&nb
sp; After a moment she slowly turned her head and looked at him. There wasno answer, and no question in her gaze, only the still, expressionlessclairvoyance of a soul that sees but does not heed.

  There was no misunderstanding in her eyes, nothing wistful, nothingafraid or hurt--nothing of doubt. What had happened to others in theworld was happening now to her. She understood it; that was all--asthough the millions of her sisters who had passed that way had left toher the dread legacy of familiarity with the smooth, wide path they hadtrodden since time began on earth. And here it was, at last! Her owncalmness surprised her.

  He detained her for another moment in a swift embrace; inert,unresponsive, she stood looking down at the crushed gardenia in hisbuttonhole, dully conscious of being bruised. Then he let her go; herhand fell from his arm; she turned and faced the familiar stairs andmounted them.

  Dinner waited for her; whether she ate or not, she could not afterwardremember. About eleven o'clock, she rose wearily from the bed where shehad been lying, and began to undress.

  * * * * *

  As for Desboro, he had gone straight to his rooms very much excited andunbalanced by the emotions of the moment.

  He was a man not easily moved to genuine expression. Having acquiredcertain sorts of worldly wisdom in a career more or less erratic,experience had left him unconvinced and even cynical--or he thought ithad.

  But now, for the moment, all that lay latent in him of that impetuousand heedless vigour which may become strength, if properly directed, wasawakening. Every recurring memory of her had already begun to tamperwith his self-control; for the emotions of the moments just ended hadbeen confusingly real; and, whatever they were arousing in him, nowclamoured for some sort of expression.

  The very thought of her, now, began to act on him like some fresheningperfume alternately stimulating and enervating. He made the effort againand again, and could not put her from his mind, could not forget thelowered head and the slender, yielding grace of her, and her fragrance,and her silence.

  Dressing in his rooms, growing more restless every moment, he began towalk the floor like some tormented thing that seeks alleviation inpurposeless activity.

  He said, half aloud, to himself:

  "I can't go on this way. This is damn foolish! I've got to find outwhere it's landing me. It will land her, too--somewhere. I'd better keepaway from her, go off somewhere, get out, stop seeing her, stopremembering her!--if she's what I think she is."

  Scowling, he went to the window and jerked aside the curtain. Across thestreet, the Olympian Club sparkled with electricity.

  "Good Lord!" he muttered. "What a tempest in a teapot! What the devil'sthe matter with me? Can't I kiss a girl now and then and keep mysenses?"

  It seemed that he couldn't, in the present instance, for after he hadbitten the amber stem of his pipe clean through, he threw the bowl intothe fireplace. It had taken him two years to colour it.

  "Idiot!" he said aloud. "What are you sorry about? You know damn wellthere are only two kinds of women, and it's up to them what sort theyare--not up to any man who ever lived! What are you sorry for? For her?"

  He stared across the street at the Olympian Club. He was expected there.

  "If she only wasn't so--so expressionless and--silent about it. It'slike killing something that lets you do it. That's a crazy thing tothink of!"

  Suddenly he found he had a fight on his hands. He had never had one likeit; didn't know exactly what to do, except to repeat over and over:

  "It isn't square--it isn't square. She knows it, too. She's frightened.She knows it isn't square. There's nothing ahead but hell to pay! Sheknows it. And she doesn't defend herself. There _are_ only two kinds ofwomen. It _is_ up to them, too. But it's like killing something thatlets you kill it. Good God! What a damn fool I am!"

  Later he repeated it. Later still he found himself leaning over hisdesk, groping blindly about for a pen, and cursing breathlessly asthough he had not a moment to lose.

  He wrote:

  "DEAR LITTLE JACQUELINE: I'm not going to see you again. Where the fool courage to write this comes from I don't know. But you will now learn that there is nothing to me after all--not even enough of positive and negative to make me worth forgiveness. And so I let it go at that. Good-bye.

  "DESBORO."

  In the same half blind, half dazed way, cursing something all the while,he managed to seal, stamp, and direct the letter, and get himself out ofthe house with it.

  A club servant at the Olympian mailed it; he continued on his way to thedining room, and stumbled into a chair between Cairns and ReggieLedyard, who were feasting noisily and unwisely with Stuyvesant VanAlstyne; and the racket and confusion seemed to help him. He wasconscious of laughing and talking and drinking a great deal--conscious,too, of the annoyance of other men at other tables. Finally, one of thegovernors came over and very pleasantly told him to shut up or goelsewhere.

  They all went, with cheerfulness unimpaired by gubernatorialadmonition. There was a large dinner dance for debutantes at theBarkley's. This function they deigned to decorate with their presencefor a while, Cairns and Van Alstyne behaving well enough, consideringthe manners of the times; Desboro, a dull fire smouldering in his veins,wandered about, haunted by a ghost whose soft breath touched his cheek.

  His manners were good when he chose; they were always faultless when hewas drunk. Perfectly steady on his legs, very pale, and a trifle overpolite, the drunker he was the more courtly he invariably became,measuredly graceful, in speech reticent. Only his pallor and the linesabout his mouth betrayed the tension.

  Later, one or two men familiar with the house strolled into the distantbilliard room and discovered him standing there looking blankly intospace.

  Ledyard, bad tempered when he had dined too well, announced that he hadhad enough of that debutante party:

  "Look at 'em," he said to Desboro. "Horrible little fluffs just out ofthe incubator--with their silly brains and rotten manners, and their'Bunny Hugs' and 'Turkey Trots' and 'Dying Chickens,' and the champagneflaming in their baby cheeks! Why, their mothers are letting 'em dancelike _filles de Brasserie_! Men used to know where to go for that sortof thing----"

  Cairns, balancing gravely on heels and toes, waved one handcomprehensively.

  "Problem was," he said, "how to keep the young at home. Bunny Hug solvesit. See? All the comforts of the Tenderloin at home. Tha's'splaination."

  "Come on to supper," said Ledyard. "Your Blue Girl will be there, Jim."

  "By all means," said Desboro courteously. "My car is entirely at yourdisposal." But he made no movement.

  "Come to supper," insisted Ledyard.

  "Commer supper," echoed Cairns gravely. "Whazzer mazzer? Commer supper!"

  "Nothing," said Desboro, "could give me greater pleasure." He rose,bowed courteously to Ledyard, included Cairns in a graceful salute, andreseated himself.

  Ledyard lost his temper and began to shout at him.

  "I beg your pardon for my inexcusable absent-mindedness," said Desboro,getting slowly onto his feet once more. With graceful precision, he madehis way to his hostess and took faultless leave of her, Cairns andLedyard attempting vainly to imitate his poise, urbanity andself-possession.

  The icy air of the street did Cairns good and aided Ledyard. So they gotthemselves out across the sidewalk and ultimately into Desboro's towncar, which was waiting, as usual.

  "Little bunny-hugging, bread-and-butter beasts," muttered Ledyard tohimself. "Lord! Don't they want us to draw the line between them and thesort we're to meet at supper?"

  "They're jus' fools," said Cairns. "No harm in 'em! And I'm not going tosupper. I'll take you there an' go'me!"

  "What's the matter with _you_?" demanded Ledyard.

  "No--I'm through, that's all. You 'sult nice li'l debutantes. Rotten badtaste. Nice li'l debbys."

  "Come on, you jinx!"

  "That girl in blue. Will she be there--the one who does the lute solo in
'The Maid of Shiraz'?"

  "Yes, but she's crazy about Desboro."

  "I waive all pretension to the charming condescension of that verylovely young lady, and cheerfully concede your claims," said Desboro,raising his hat and wrecking it against the roof of the automobile.

  "As you wish, dear friend. But why so suddenly the solitary recluse?"

  "A personal reason, I assure you."

  "I see," remarked Ledyard. "And what may be the name and quality of thispersonal reason? And is she a blonde?"

  Desboro shrugged his polite impatience. But when the others got out atthe Santa Regina he followed. Cairns was inclined to shed a few tearsover Ledyard's insults to the "debbys."

  "Sure," said the latter, soothingly. "The brimming beaker for you, dearfriend, and it will pass away. Hark! I hear the fairy feetsteps of ahouri!" as they landed from the elevator and encountered a group oflaughing, bright-eyed young girls in the hallway, seeking the privatesupper room.

  One of them was certainly the girl in blue. The others appeared toDesboro as merely numerous and, later, exceedingly noisy. But noise andmovement seemed to make endurable the dull pain thudding ceaselessly inhis heart. Music and roses, flushed faces, the ringing harmony ofcrystal and silver, and the gaiety _a diable_ of the girl beside himwould ease it--_must_ ease it, somehow. For it had to be first eased,then killed. There was no sense, no reason, no excuse for going on thisway--enduring such a hurt. And just at present the remedy seemed to liein a gay uproar and many brilliant lights, and in the tinted lips of thegirl beside him, babbling nonsense while her dark eyes laughed,promising all they laughed at--if he cared to ask an answer to theriddle.

  But he never asked it.

  Later somebody offered a toast to Desboro, but when they looked aroundfor him in the uproar, glasses aloft, he had disappeared.