A KISS
After the dinner Mayer walked downtown. He had been a good deal
surprised, rather amused, and in the drawing-room afterward extremely
bored. His amusement was sardonic. He grinned at the thought of himself
in such company and wondered if it could have happened anywhere but
California. Those two girls, rich and young, were apparently free to ask
anybody into their house. It was curious, and he saw them similarly
placed in Europe; they would have been guarded like the royal treasure,
chiefly to keep such men as himself out.
The splendor of the entertainment had surprised him. He was becoming used
to the Californian's prodigal display of flowers, but such a dinner,
served to unappreciative youth, was something new. The whole affair had
been a combination of an intelligent luxury and a rank crudity--food fit
for kings set before boys and girls who had no more appreciation of its
excellence than babies would have had. And the silver on the table,
cumbrously magnificent, it was worth a small fortune.
Outside the humor of his own presence there, he had found the affair
tedious, especially that last hour in the drawing-room. It was the sort
of place that had always bored him even when he was young, governed by
narrow, feminine standards, breathing a ponderous respectability from
every curtain fold. Neither of the girls had been attractive. The elder,
the small, pale one, was a prim, stiff little thing. The other was
nothing but a gawky child; fine coloring--these Californians all had
it--but with no charm or mystery. They were like the fruit, all run to
size but without much flavor. He thought the elder girl had some
intelligence; one would have to be on one's guard with her. He made a
mental note of it, for he intended going there again--it was the best
meal he had eaten since he left New York.
The night was warm and soft, a moon rising over the housetops. He
breathed deep of the balmy air, inhaling it gratefully. After such a
constrained three hours he felt the need of relaxation, of easy
surroundings, of an expansion to his accustomed dimensions. Swinging down
the steep street between the dark gardens and flanking walls, he surveyed
the lights of the city's livelier center and thought of something to do
that would take the curse of the dinner off his spirit.
A half hour later Pancha, emerging from the alley that led to the
Albion's stage door, saw a tall, familiar shape approach from the
shadows. Her heart gave a jump, and as her hand was enfolded in a
strong, possessive grasp, she could not control the sudden quickening of
her breath.
"Oh, it's you! Gee, how you scared me," she said, to account for it.
He squeezed the hand, murmuring apologies, his vanity gratified, for he
knew no man at the stage door would ever scare Pancha.
As it was so fine a night he suggested that she walk back to the hotel
and let him escort her, to which, with a glance at the moon, and a sniff
of the mellow air, she agreed.
So they fared forth, two dark figures, choosing quieter streets than
those she usually trod, the tapping of her high heels falling with a
smart regularity on the stillness held between the silver-washed walls.
They were rather silent, conversation broken by periods when their
mingled footfalls beat clear on the large, enfolding mutter of the city
sinking to sleep. It was his fault; heretofore he had been the leader,
conducting her by a crafty discursiveness toward those confidences she so
resolutely withheld. But tonight he did not want to talk, trailing lazy
steps beside her, casting thoughtful glances upward at the vast,
illumined sky. It made her nervous; there was something of a deep,
disturbing intimacy about it; not a sweet and soothing intimacy, but
portentous and agitating. She tried to be herself, laid about for bright
things to say and found she could pump up no defiant buoyancy, her tongue
clogged, her spirit oppressed by a disintegrating inner distress. It did
not make matters any better when he said in a dreamy tone:
"Why are you so quiet?"
"I've worked hard tonight. I'm tired and you're walking so fast."
He was immediately contrite, slackening his step, which in truth was
very slow.
"Oh, Pancha, what a brute I am. Why didn't you tell me?" And he took her
hand and tried to draw it through his arm.
But she resisted, pulling away from him almost pettishly, shrinking from
his touch.
"No, no, let me alone. I like to walk by myself."
He drew back with a slight shrug, more amused than repulsed. Nevertheless
he was rather sorry he had suggested the walk, he had never known her to
be less entertaining.
"Always proud, always independent, always keeping her guard up." He cast
a questioning side glance at her face, grave and pale by his shoulder.
"You wild thing, can no one tame you?"
"Why do you say I'm wild?"
"Because you are. How long have I known you? Since early in September and
I don't get any nearer. You still keep me guessing."
"About what?"
"About _what_?" He leaned down and spied at her profile. "About
yourself."
"Oh, me!"
"Yes, you--what else? You're the most secretive little sphinx
outside Egypt."
She did not answer for a moment. She _had_ been secretive, but it was
about the humble surroundings of her youth, those ignominious beginnings
of hers. Of this she could not bring herself to tell, fearful that it
would lower her in his esteem. She saw him, hearing of the Buon Gusto
restaurant and the life along the desert, withdrawing from her in shocked
repugnance. About other things--the stage, the lovers--she had been
frank, almost confidential.
"I don't see why you say that," she protested; "I've told you any amount
of stuff."
"But not everything. You know that, Pancha."
He was now so keen, like a dog with its nose to the scent, that he forgot
her recent refusal and hooked his hand inside her arm. This time she did
not draw away and they walked on, close-linked, alone in the moonlit
street. Conscious of her reticences, ashamed of her lack of candor, and
yet afraid to make damaging revelations, she said defensively:
"I've told you as much as I want to tell."
He seized on that, in his eagerness pressing her arm against his side,
bending over her like a lover.
"Yes, but not all. And why not all? Why should you keep anything from
me?"
"But why _should_ I tell you?" she asked, her loitering step coming
to a stop.
As the situation stood the question was a poser. He did not want to be
her lover, had never intended it; his easy gallantry had meant nothing.
But now, seeing her averted face, the eyes down-drooped, he could think
of no reply that was not love-making. She stole a swift look at him,
recognized his hesitation, and felt a stab, for it was the love-making
answer she had expected. The mortified anger of the woman who has made a
bid for tenderness and seen herself mistaken surged up in her.
She jerked her arm violently out of his grasp and walked forward at a
swinging pace.
"What's the matter?" he said, chasing at her heels. "Are you angry?"
"I shouldn't wonder," she threw over her shoulder. "Being nagged at for
fun doesn't appeal to me."
"But what do you mean?--I'm all at sea."
She suddenly brought up short, and wheeling, faced him, her face
lowering, her breath quick:
"I'm the one to say that, for I don't get you, Boye Mayer, I don't see
what you're up to. But sometimes I think you've just come snooping round
roe to find out something. You come and you go, always so curious, always
wanting to know, pussy-footing round with your questions and your
compliments. What's on your mind?"
Mayer found himself in an impasse. She knew him too well and she was too
angry to be diverted with the temporizing lightness of their early
acquaintance. There was only one thing to say to her, and--the cause of
her excitement plain to his informed mind--it was not difficult to say.
"Pancha," he pleaded, "you don't understand."
"You bet I don't and I want to. I'd like to have it explained--I'd like
to know what you hang round me for. Do you think I'm hiding something? Do
you think I'm a criminal?"
"I think you're the most charming girl in the world," he protested.
She gave a smothered sound of rage and started off, faster than ever,
down the street. This time he kept up with her, and rounding a corner the
two lamps at the foot of the Vallejo's steps loomed up close at hand.
"Stop," he said. "Wait." He had no idea the hotel was so near, and
surprised at the sight of it his voice became suddenly imperious and he
seized her arm with a dominating grip. She tried to jerk it away, but he
held it and drew her, stiff and averse, toward him.
"You foolish one," he whispered. "Why, don't you see? I hang around
because I can't help it. I come because I can't stay away--I want to know
about you because I'm jealous of every man that ever looked at you."
With the last word he threw his arm about her and snatched her close.
Against him she suddenly relaxed, melted into a thing of yielding
softness, while his lips touched a cheek like a burning rose petal.
The next moment she was gone. He had a glimpse of her on the Vallejo
steps in swallow-swift silhouette and then heard the bang of the door.
In her room Pancha moved about mechanically, doing the accustomed things.
She lighted the light, took off her hat and jacket, brought the milk from
the window sill. Then, with the bottle on the table beside her, she sat
down, her hands in her lap, her eyes on space. She was as motionless as a
statue, save for the breaths that lifted her chest. She sat that way for
a long time, her only movements a shifting of her blank gaze or a
respiration deeper than the others. She saw nothing of what her glance
rested on, heard none of the decreasing midnight sounds in the street or
the house about her. An intensity of feeling had lifted her to a plane
where the familiar and habitual had no more place than had premonitions
and forebodings.