"Don't think of it. You haven't asked when the new deal is to begin."
"Oh, yes--and I shall have to tell Mr. Tetlow I'm not taking the place
he got for me."
"Be careful what you say to him," cautioned Norman. "You must see it
wouldn't be well to tell him what you are going to do. There's no reason
on earth why he should know your business--is there?"
She did not reply; she was reflecting.
"You are not thinking of marrying Tetlow--are you?"
"No," she said. "I don't love him--and couldn't learn to."
With a sincerely judicial air, now that he felt secure, he said: "Why
not? It would be a good match."
"I don't love him," she repeated, as if that were a sufficient and
complete answer. And he was astonished to find that he so regarded it,
also, in spite of every assault of all that his training had taught him
to regard as common sense about human nature.
"You can simply say to Tetlow that you've decided to stay at home and
take care of your father. The offices of the company will be at your
house. Your official duties practically amount to taking care of your
father. So you'll be speaking the truth."
"Oh, it isn't exactly lying, to keep something from somebody who has no
right to know it. What you suggest isn't quite the truth. But it's near
enough, and I'll say it to him."
His own view of lying was the same as that she had expressed. Also, he
had no squeamishness about saying what was in no sense true, if the
falsehood were necessary to his purposes. Yet her statement of her code,
moral though he thought it and eminently sensible as well, lowered her
once more in his estimation. He was eager to find reason or plausible
excuse for believing her morally other and less than she seemed to be.
Immediately the prospects of his ultimate projects--whatever they might
prove to be--took on a more hopeful air. "And I'd advise you to have
Tetlow keep away from you. We don't want him nosing round."
"No, indeed," said she. "He is a nice man, but tiresome. And if I
encouraged him ever so little, he'd be sentimental. The most tiresome
thing in the world to a girl is a man who talks that sort of thing when
she doesn't want to hear it--from him."
He laughed. "Meaning me?" he suggested.
She nodded, much pleased. "Perhaps," she replied.
"Don't worry about that," mocked he.
"I shan't till I have to," she assured him. "And I don't think I'll have
to."
* * * * *
On the Monday morning following, Tetlow came in to see Norman as soon as
he arrived. "I want a two weeks' leave," he said. "I'm going to Bermuda
or down there somewhere."
"Why, what's the matter?" cried Norman. "You do look ill, old man."
"I saw her last night," replied the chief clerk, dropping an effort at
concealing his dejection. "She--she turned me down."
"Really? You?" Norman's tone of sympathetic surprise would not have
deceived half attentive ears. But Tetlow was securely absorbed. "Why,
Billy, she can't hope to make as good a match."
"That's what I told her--when I saw the game was going against me. But
it was no use."
Norman trifled nervously with the papers before him. Presently he said,
"Is it some one else?"
Tetlow shook his head.
"How do you know?"
"Because she said so," replied the head clerk.
"Oh--if she said so, that settles it," said Norman with raillery.
"She's given up work--thank God," pursued Tetlow. "She's getting more
beautiful all the time--Norman, if you had seen her last night, you'd
understand why I'm stark mad about her."
Norman's eyes were down. His hands, the muscles of his jaw were
clinched.
"But, I mustn't think of that," Tetlow went on. "As I was about to say,
if she were to stay on in the offices some one--some attractive man like
you, only with the heart of a scoundrel----"
Norman laughed cynically.
"Yes, a scoundrel!" reiterated the fat head-clerk. "Some scoundrel would
tempt her beyond her power to resist. Money and clothes and luxury will
do anything. We all get to be harlots here in New York. Some of us know
it, and some don't. But we all look it and act it. And she'd go the way
of the rest--with or without marriage. It's just as well she didn't
marry me. I know what'd have become of her."
Norman nodded.
Tetlow gave a weary sigh. "Anyhow, she's safe at home with her father.
He's found a backer for his experiments."
"That's good," said Norman.
"You can spare me for ten days," Tetlow went on. "I'd be of no use if I
stayed."
There was a depth of misery in his kind gray eyes that moved Norman to
get up and lay a friendly hand on his shoulder. "It's the best thing,
old man. She wasn't for you."
Tetlow dropped into a chair and sobbed. "It has killed me," he groaned.
"I don't mean I'll commit suicide or die. I mean I'm dead inside--dead."
"Oh, come, Billy--where's your good sense?"
"I know what I'm talking about," said he. "Norman, God help the man who
meets the woman he really wants--God help him if she doesn't want him.
You don't understand. You'll never have the experience. Any woman you
wanted would be sure to want you."
Norman, his hand still on Tetlow's shoulder, was staring ahead with a
terrible expression upon his strong features.
"If she could see the inside of me--the part that's the real me--I think
she would love me--or learn to love me. But she can only see the
outside--this homely face and body of mine. It's horrible, Fred--to have
a mind and a heart fit for love and for being loved, and an outside that
repels it. And how many of us poor devils of that sort there are--men
and women both!"
Norman was at the window now, his back to the room, to his friend. After
a while Tetlow rose and made a feeble effort to straighten himself. "Is
it all right about the vacation?" he asked.
"Certainly," said Norman, without turning.
"Thank you, Fred. You're a good friend."
"I'll see you before you go," said Norman, still facing the window.
"You'll come back all right."
Tetlow did not answer. When Norman turned he was alone.