I
Two weeks later Bud Henderson sought Bruce at Freeman’s office. Bruce
looked up from his desk with a frown that cleared as he recognized his
friend. With his cap pushed back on his head and buttoned up in a long
ulster, Henderson eyed him stolidly and demanded to know what he was
doing.
“Going over some specifications; I might say I’m at work, if you knew
what the word means.”
“Thanks for the compliment, but it’s time to quit,” Henderson replied,
taking a cigarette from a package on Bruce’s desk. “I happen to know
your boss is playing handball this moment at the Athletic and he’ll
never know you’ve skipped. I haven’t liked a certain look in your eye
lately. You’re sticking too close to your job. Bill is pleased to death
with your work, so you haven’t a thing to worry about. Get your bonnet
and we’ll go out and see what we can stir up.”
“I’m in a frame of mind to be tempted. But I ought to finish this
stuff.”
“Don’t be silly,” replied Bud, who was prowling about the room viewing
the framed plans and drawings on the walls, peering into cabinets,
unrolling blue prints merely to fling them aside with a groan of
disgust.
“My God! It doesn’t seem possible that Bill Freeman would put his name
to such things!”
“Don’t forget this is a _private_ office, Mr. Henderson. What’s
agitating your bean?”
“Thought I’d run you up to the art institute to look at some Finnish
work they’re showing. Perhaps it’s Hottentotish; or maybe it’s Eskimo
art. We’ve got to keep in touch with the world art movement.” Henderson
yawned.
“Try again; I pant for real excitement,” said Bruce, who was wondering
whether his friend really had noticed signs of his recent worry.
Henderson, apparently intent upon a volume of prints of English country
houses, swung round as Bruce, in putting on his overcoat, knocked
over a chair. He crossed the room and laid his hands on Bruce’s broad
shoulders.
“I say, old top; this will never do! You’re nervous; you’re damned
nervous. Knocking over chairs--and you with the finest body known in
modern times! I watched you the other day eating your lunch all alone
at the club--you didn’t know I was looking at you. Your expression
couldn’t be accounted for even by that bum club lunch. Now if it’s
money----”
“Nothing of the kind, Bud!” Bruce protested. “You’ll have me scared in
a minute. There’s nothing the matter with me. I’m all right; I just
have to get readjusted to a new way of living; that’s all.”
“Well, as you don’t thrill to the idea of viewing works of art, I’ll
tell you what I’m really here for. I’m luring you away to sip tea with
a widow!”
“A widow! Where do you get the idea that I’m a consoler of widows?”
“This one doesn’t need consoling! Helen Torrence is the name; relict
of the late James B. deceased. She’s been away ever since you lit in
our midst and just got home. About our age and not painful to look
at. Jim Torrence was a good fifty when he met her, at White Sulphur
or some such seat of opulence, and proudly brought her home for local
inspection. The gossips forcibly removed most of her moral character,
just on suspicion, you understand--but James B.’s money had a soothing
effect and she got one foot inside our social door before he passed
hence three years ago and left her the boodle he got from his first
wife. Helen’s a good scout. It struck me all of a heap about an hour
ago that she’s just the girl to cheer you up. I was just kidding about
the art stuff. I telephoned Helen I was coming, so we’re all set.”
“Ah! I see through the whole game! You’re flirting with the woman and
want me for a blind in case Maybelle finds you out.”
“Clever! The boy’s clever! But--listen--I never try to put anything
over on Maybelle. A grand jury hasn’t an all-seeinger eye than Mrs. Bud
Henderson. Let’s beat it!”
On the drive uptown Henderson devoted himself with his usual
thoroughness to a recital of the history of Mrs. Torrence. The lady’s
social status lay somewhere between the old and the new element, Bud
explained. The president of the trust company that administered her
affairs belonged to the old crowd--the paralytic or angina pectoris
group, as Bud described it, and his wife and daughters just _had_ to
be nice to Torrence’s wife or run a chance of offending her and losing
control of the estate. On the other hand her natural gaiety threw her
toward the camps of the newer element who were too busy having a good
time to indulge in ancestor worship.
Henderson concluded his illuminative exposition of Mrs. Torrence’s life
history as they reached the house. They were admitted by a colored
butler who took their coats and flung open a door that revealed a
spacious living-room.
“Helen!” exclaimed Henderson dramatically.
It was possible that Mrs. Torrence had prepared for their entrance
by posing in the middle of the room with a view to a first effect,
an effect to which her quick little step as she came forward to meet
them contributed. Her blue tea gown, parted a little above the ankles,
invited inspection of her remarkably small feet adorned with brilliant
buckles. She was short with a figure rounded to plumpness and with
fluffy brown hair, caught up high as though to create an illusion as to
her stature. Her complexion was a clear brilliant pink; her alert small
eyes were a greenish blue. Her odd little staccato walk was in keeping
with her general air of vivacity. She was all alive, amusingly abrupt,
spontaneous, decisive.
“Hello! Bud, the old reliable! Mr. Storrs! Yes; I _had_ been hoping for
this!”
She gave a hand to each and looked up at Bruce, who towered above her,
and nodded as though approving of him.
“This is delightful! A new man! Marvelous!”
As she explained that she had been away since June and was only just
home, Bruce became aware that Henderson had passed on and was standing
by a tea table indulging in his usual style of raillery with a young
woman whose voice even before he looked at her identified her as
Constance Mills.
“You know Mrs. Mills? Of course! If you’d only arrived this morning
you’d know Connie. Not to know Connie is indeed to be unknown.”
Constance extended her hand from the divan on which she was seated
behind the tea table--thrust it out lazily with a minimum of effort.
“Oh--the difficult Mr. Storrs! I’m terribly mortified to be meeting you
in a friend’s house and not in my own!”
“To meet you anywhere----” began Bruce, but she interrupted him,
holding him with her eyes.
“----would be a pleasure! Of course! I know the formula, but I’m not a
debutante. You didn’t like me that night we met at Dale Freeman’s, and
I was foolish enough to think I’d made an impression!”
“Let’s tell him the truth,” said Henderson, helping himself to a slice
of cinnamon toast. “Bruce, I bet a hundred cigarettes with Connie I
could deliver you here and I win!”
“Not a word of truth in that!” declared Constance. “Bud’s such a liar!”
Mrs. Torrence said they must have tea, and Henderson protested that tea
was not to be thought of. Tea, he declared, was extremely distasteful
to him; and Bruce always became ill at the sight of it.
“But when I told Connie you were bringing Mr. Storrs she said he was
terribly proper and for me not to dare mention cocktails.”
“Now, Helen, I didn’t say just that! What I meant, of course, was that
I hoped that Mr. Storrs wasn’t too proper,” said Constance.
“Proper!” Bruce caught her up. “This is an enemy’s work. Bud, I suspect
you of this dastardly assault on my character!”
“Not guilty!” Bud retorted. “The main thing right now is that we’re all
peevish and need martinis. What’s the Volstead signal, Helen?”
“Three rings, Bud, with a pause between the first and second.”
The tea tray was removed and reappeared adorned with all the essentials
for the concoction of cocktails. When the glasses were filled and all
had expressed their satisfaction at the result, Henderson detained
the negro butler for a conference on dice throwing. He seated himself
on the floor the better to receive the man’s instructions. The others
taunted him for his inaptitude. The butler retired finally with five
dollars of Bud’s money, a result attained only after the spectators
were limp with laughter.
“You’re a scream, Bud! A perfect scream!” and Mrs. Torrence refilled
the glasses.
She took Bud to the dining-room to exhibit a rare Japanese screen
acquired in her travels, and Bruce found himself alone with Constance.
She pointed to her glass, still brimming, and remarked:
“Please admire my abstemiousness! One is my limit.”
“Let me see; did I really have three?” asked Bruce as he sat down
beside her.
“I want to forget everything this afternoon,” she began. “I feel that
I’d like to climb the hills of the unattainable, be someone else for a
while.”
“Oh, we all have those spells,” he replied. “That’s why Prohibition’s a
failure.”
“But life is a bore at times,” she insisted. “Maybe you’re one of the
lucky ones who never go clear down. A man has his work--there’s always
that----”
“Hasn’t woman got herself everything--politics, business, philanthropy?
You don’t mean to tell me the new woman is already pining for her old
slavery! I supposed you led a complete and satisfactory existence!”
“A pretty delusion! I just pretend, that’s all. There are days when
nothing seems of the slightest use. I thought there might be something
in politics, but after I’d gone to a few meetings and served on a
committee or two it didn’t amuse me any more. I played at being a
radical for a while, but after you’ve scared all your friends a few
times with your violence it ceases to be funny. The only real joy I got
out of flirting with socialism was in annoying my father-in-law. And I
had to give that up for fear he’d think I was infecting Shep with my
ideas.”