All that evening he kept his eyes on her, and managed a pilfered caress
just before leaving.
Her eyes laughed at him. "Do you know, Pelham, I'm not sure I'll wish
you on Jane, after all!"
He began to time his visits to the Meade house so that they found Lyman
away. One cool dusk--Lyman was in Philadelphia for the week--he veered
carefully to something that was worrying him. "Nell--my sister--swears
that the crowd are talking about us, Dorothy."
"Wants to wean you?" She laughed mellowly, the fluffy crown of curled
gold dancing, as if sharing the mirth. "They've talked about Lyman for
years, now; it hasn't slowed him. I like you far too much, boy dear, to
give you up for idle tongues."
"I hate to have them mention _you_." He twitched restlessly. "You know
what you're doing to me, Dorothy. I've been straight ... so far. You're
setting me on fire. This is a slippery hill to keep straight on; I might
skid."
"Meaning?" She achieved two passable smoke rings--the effort after them
was her chief motive in smoking--and idly planned a gown, tinted like
the furnace-glowing sky, with twined gray smoke-wreaths in couples and
trios--grouped figures that blent into one, then idly drifted apart.
"Kissing's only excuse is as a prelude to love's physical finale," he
answered straightly. The dusk hid her wry face, as he continued,
"Lyman's in the way. You say you still love him."
"Yes...." She paraphrased, with a show of pondering, something she had
read in a showy woman's magazine. "He can't help being what he is. None
of us can change the material, though we may alter the pattern, or dye
the goods.... Much good that would do."
"The lady turned philosopher!" His hand caressed her fluffy short sleeve
caressingly. "So ... you won't take me for a lover."
"Hardly," she laughed with sober hunger, grieving at youth's lack of
subtlety.
"You're setting me on fire," he repeated with somber relish. "You'll
drive me to some other woman, or ... women. You'll lose me either way;
you wouldn't want me then; and I----this can't last always."
"I'll run the risk, boy."
The street quieted, as the late cars from the club droned away into the
mist-damp distance. As Pelham turned on his lamps for the homeward run,
he saw that the great summer triangle had swung from the east to the
sunset horizon; Vega's white beauty, dragging near the western hills,
was smudged by the unsleeping breath of those squat furnaces and coke
ovens, whose pauseless task was to transmute the riven ore into iron
sows and pigs--the first step in the alchemy that transformed the
skeleton of the mountain into a restless trickle of gold, urging itself
into the overfull vaults of his father. Paul slept now, as the son would
soon sleep; but those furnaces, and their parched servitors eternally
feeding the hungry mouths of fire, did not sleep. Some tortuous filament
of thought brought him back to Dorothy, and the flaming furnace that she
had helped light within him ... which did not sleep. With all of the
scorching rapture which her surface surrender yielded, he wondered if it
would not have been better if he had not met her.... There were once
three men in another fiery furnace; but they had walked out, unsinged.
He knew himself well enough to be sure that he had no salamander blood;
was he strong enough to tempt the break from the charring spell? Well,
there was time to think of that again.
When he reached the highest crest, Vega still hung over the sullen glow
of a furnace throat; but the smudge had grown darker.
The next morning his father, who seemed gifted with the ability to
pierce unerringly to whatever weighed on the son's desires, went into
the subject with him. "This isn't criticism, Pelham; it's an attempt to
help you steer clear of any mess. Particularly with a married woman. It
sounds--nasty."
The son was indignant. "There's been nothing improper. I've taken a few
Sunday suppers there----"
"Of course, of course." Pelham knew these dry tones. "It doesn't pay. I
ought to have talked with you before. It's easy for a young man,
particularly with good financial prospects, to get roped in by some
woman, married or unmarried.... Sometimes he has to pay well to get
out."
"That's ridiculous, about ... about ..."
"It doesn't pay, visiting one woman," Paul continued, in matter-of-fact
tones. "Young Little almost had to marry one of the telephone operators
at the Stevens Hotel. His father loosened up five thousand to get rid of
her. I haven't any money to waste on your foolishness."
There was a silent interval.
"If you must have a woman--I passed through the stage myself, like all
young men--don't you fool with the half-decent kind. You'd better go
right down to Butler's Avenue, and pay your money down for what you get.
There's less chance of diseases--they have medical inspection. And it
avoids a serious mix-up."
Pelham's face went white. "I don't need that kind of advice. I've kept
straight so far; I intend to keep so, until I'm married. Money couldn't
pay me to go there."