You are uncomfortable. You are both sitting on one of the sofas, but
with a great difference of mien. She is curled up among the
cushions—she is a supple little thing, and seems to be comfortable, but
you are leaning forward with your hands clasped between your knees,
which are rather ludicrously raised from the floor because the couch
sags. Anyway, it is never becoming to you to argue; your face grows red
and you look more clumsy than ever. She is enjoying the new sensation of
seeing you ill at ease, and because of her. In the office it is so often
the other way around.
“But I don’t think it is good for you,” you are saying.
“I don’t see why.”
“It isn’t good for anyone to be too much alone.” Speak doggedly in the
tone of one who has made the same remark at intervals all his life.
“Oh no,” she protests. “I think it depends a lot on the person. I think
everybody ought to have privacy. I don’t see how the people here do
without it, I really don’t. I have to keep my shades down all the time,
living in the basement like this. Even at that the girls are always
coming in—a couple of people have keys.”
“What?” you cry. She laughs.
“Just the girls, silly.” You are somewhat confused and she feels abashed
at having called you silly. It sounds too intimate, somehow. Move your
feet uneasily and knit your brows in an effort to say tactfully just
what you think.
“I don’t like it. You need your rest. It’s all right for a while but
pretty soon it’ll react on you. I don’t understand you girls. You don’t
use one of these studios for anything, you’re at the office all day
anyway. You don’t even save so much money.” She laughs and then looks at
you inquisitively.
“Really, you’re taking it awfully hard. What’s the matter? What’s
worrying you?”
“I don’t know.... I just don’t like it all.”
“I know,” she says, teasingly. “You didn’t like the dinner. I know you
didn’t. Confess you didn’t!”
“I’m not worrying about the dinner,” you say hastily. “I don’t care much
about what I eat; it was only that the place didn’t look clean. You
never eat their stew or anything like that, do you?”
She answers sarcastically, “It’s terribly nice of you to worry so much
about me....” and you flush.
“Now, don’t talk like that. Please don’t.”
“No, honestly, I mean it. I wrote Mother that she certainly wouldn’t
worry so much about me if she could hear how you’re always lecturing me.
I’m so afraid you’ll walk into the office some day when it’s raining and
bellow, ‘Miss Merrill, where are your rubbers?’”
This is better. Relax and laugh loudly. “Better look out, or I will!”
In the relaxed atmosphere of the joke you suddenly find enough courage
to lean over the necessary few inches and put a hand on her shoulder,
rubbing your cheek against hers for a second.
She is discomposed, although it is not very surprising after all.
“Here!” she protests, breathlessly. “Stop that! Why did you do that?”
“Sorry. But I wanted to.”
“Well....” She is at a loss. She giggles and says, “And besides, you
need a shave.”
“Yeah. Sorry.... Another thing, I think probably you don’t have very
good people hanging around here.”
“How can you tell? You haven’t met anyone but Mary. You said she has
nice ankles.”
“Did I?” you ask, surprised. “Maybe I did. But I don’t like women to cut
their hair so short. That’s one of the things I like about you, by the
way. You may be in business and all that, but you haven’t lost your
femininity.” Close your hand over hers where it lies on the cushion.
“That’s not a compliment these days.”
Shake your head violently. “Don’t kid yourself. We really like the same
type all the time, we men. You know, you worry me a lot in the office.”
“Really? How?”
“Well, because——” Stop and knit your brows. You are trying very hard
to express yourself sincerely. “In the office you treat everybody so
darned nice.... I mean you’re a great little mixer and it’s fine for
business, but doesn’t anyone ever misunderstand? You know what I mean,
don’t you?”
She looks at you with a startled expression which changes to a hurt one.
She falters. “You mean I don’t act—do I act too fast? I’m awfully
sorry. I thought that——”
Pat her hand furiously. “No, no! You act fine! I didn’t mean to
criticize you at all, but you know how men are. Listen here.” You raise
her chin and look at her eyes searchingly. “If anybody tries to put
anything over on you I want you to come and tell me about it. I want to
be a friend of yours.”
“Thank you,” she says softly, “I consider you a friend now.”
“That’s mighty nice of you. It makes me feel fine. You’re such a decent
kid, and I don’t think you know a thing about life.”
“Oh,” she cries pettishly, “there you go again! I guess I can take care
of myself!”
“Yes, but this is what worries me. I don’t like the idea of these
long-haired kids filling your mind up with free love theories and all
that. You’re an intelligent kid too, and youngsters like you are sort of
experimental.”
“But——”
“Wait a minute. You don’t know; you can’t tell now how you might feel
one of these days. It’s dangerous, this stuff. You may not know it, but
we’re a pretty rotten lot. Most men are out for what they can get.”
“I think that’s horrid; to be worrying like that all the time. I don’t
want to have to be on my guard all the time.”
“Of course you don’t. Of course you don’t.”
“And as for my being silly, I think you ought to realize that I have a
little common sense. Or even if you don’t think so, don’t you think that
I have some ideals?”
“That’s the way I like to hear you talk. Maybe you think I’m being sort
of nosey, but I can’t help worrying about you. You’re awfully sweet.”
She has a fleeting moment of misgiving. This isn’t the way a boss ought
to be talking. But you are very kind to be so worried.... “Yes,” she
says, flippantly, “If I were Miss Moser you wouldn’t take so much
trouble, I guess.”
“Well, nobody’s likely to bother her, at her age. I do want to keep an
eye on you. You don’t look so efficient as you are; a man’s likely to
forget what a swell little secretary you are when he looks at you. Here,
isn’t this more comfortable?” Put your arm under her head. The room is
very still and cozy. “Listen.”
“What?” she says, comfortably.
“I want to ask you something.”
“What?”
“I want to ask you to promise me something.”
“Well?”
“Promise me that—that you won’t let anyone....” Silence. “Hm-m-m?”
“If you think that I need to promise——”
Kiss her (to silence her). Then—“You know I don’t mistrust you,” you
say, gruffly, “but I get worried. Won’t you promise?”
“Sure,” she answers. The silence of the room flows over you again, and
it too holds a promise.