In the cold clear open he proceeded to take the usual account of
stock--with dismal results. She had wound him round her fingers, had
made him say only the things he should not have said, and leave unsaid
the things that might have furthered his purposes. He had conducted the
affair ridiculously--"just what is to be expected of an infatuated
fool." However, there was no consolation in the discovery that he was
reduced, after all these years of experience, to the common level--man
weak and credulous in his dealings with woman. He hoped that his disgust
with himself would lead on to disgust, or, rather, distaste for her. It
is the primal instinct of vanity to dislike and to shun those who have
witnessed its humiliation.
"I believe I am coming to my senses," he said. And he ventured to call
her up before him for examination and criticism. This as he stood upon
the forward deck of the ferry with the magnificent panorama of New York
before him. New York! And he, of its strong men, of the few in all that
multitude who had rank and power--he who had won as his promised wife
the daughter of one of the dozen mighty ones of the nation! What an
ill-timed, what an absurd, what a crazy step down this excursion of
his! And for what? There he summoned her before him. And at the first
glance of his fancy at her fair sweet face and lovely figure, he
quailed. He was hearing her voice again. He was feeling the yield of her
smooth, round form to his embrace, the yield of her smooth white cheek
to his caress. In his nostrils was the fragrance of her youth, the
matchless perfume of nature, beyond any of the distillations of art in
its appeal to his normal and healthy nerves. And he burned with the fire
only she could quench. "I must--I must.--My God, I _must_!" he muttered.
When he reached home, he asked whether his sister was in. The butler
said that Mrs. Fitzhugh had just come from the theater. In search of
her, he went to the library, found her seated there with a book and a
cigarette, her wrap thrown back upon her chair. "Come out to supper with
me, Ursula," he said. "I'm starved and bored."
"Why, you're not dressed!" exclaimed his sister. "I thought you were at
the Cameron dance with Josephine."
"Had to cut it out," replied he curtly. "Will you come?"
"I can't eat, but I'll drink. Yes, let's have a spree. It's been years
since we had one--not since we were poor. Let's not go to a _deadly_
respectable place. Let's go where there are some of the other kind,
too."
"But I must have food. Why not the Martin?"
"That'll do--though I'd prefer something a little farther up Broadway."
"The Martin is gay enough. The truth is, there's nothing really gay any
more. There's too much money. Money suffocates gayety."
To the Martin they went, and he ordered an enormous supper--one of those
incredible meals for which he was famous. They dispatched a quart of
champagne before the supper began to come, he drinking at least two
thirds of it. He drank as much while he was eating--and called for a
third bottle when the coffee was served. He had eaten half a dozen big
oysters, a whole guinea hen, a whole portion of salad, another of
Boniface cheese, with innumerable crackers.
"If I could eat as you do!" sighed Ursula enviously. "Yet it's only one
of your accomplishments."
"I'm not eating much nowadays," said he gloomily. "I'm losing my
appetite." And he lit a long black cigar and swallowed half a large
glass of the champagne. "Nothing tastes good--not even champagne."
"There _is_ something wrong with you," said Ursula. "Did you ask me out
for confidences, or for advice--or for both?"
"None of them," replied he. "Only for company. I knew I'd not be able to
sleep for hours, and I wanted to put off the time when I'd be alone."
"I wish I had as much influence with you as you have with me," said
Ursula, by way of preparation for confidences.
"Influence? Don't I do whatever you say?"
She laughed. "Nobody has influence over you," she said.
"Not even myself," replied he morosely.
"Well--that talking-to you gave me has had its effect," proceeded Mrs.
Fitzhugh. "It set me to thinking. There are other things besides
love--man and woman love. I've decided to--to behave myself and give
poor Clayton a chance to rest." She smiled, a little maliciously. "He's
had a horrible fright. But it's over now. What a fine thing it is for a
woman to have a sensible brother!"
Norman grunted, took another liberal draught of the champagne.
"If I had a mind like yours!" pursued Ursula. "Now, you simply couldn't
make a fool of yourself."
He looked at her sharply. He felt as if she had somehow got wind of his
eccentric doings.
"I've always resented your rather contemptuous attitude toward women,"
she went on. "But you are right--really you are. We're none of us worth
the excitement men make about us."
"It isn't the woman who makes a fool of the man," said Norman. "It's the
man who makes a fool of himself. A match can cause a terrific explosion
if it's in the right place--but not if it isn't."
She nodded. "That's it. We're simply matches--and most of us of the
poor sputtering kind that burns with a bad odor and goes out right away.
A very inferior quality of matches."
"Yes," repeated Norman, "it's the man who does the whole business."
A mocking smile curled her lips. "I knew you weren't in love with
Josephine."
He stared gloomily at his cigar.
"But you're going to marry her?"
"I'm in love with her," he said angrily. "And I'm going to marry her."