There were happy evenings that winter, when Ann, after finishing her
stint at the office, would hasten up their rendezvous at Piazza's little
Italian table d'hote. Here, over the minestrone soup and the spaghetti
and that strong Italian coffee that seems to have a greenish light round
the edges of the liquid (and an equally greenish taste), they would
discuss their plans and platitudes, just as lovers always have and
always will. As for Ann, the light of a mystical benevolence shone in
her as she conned her daily pile of broken hearts in the morning mail.
More than ever she felt that she, who had seen the true flame upon the
high altar, had a duty to all perplexed and random followers of the
gleam who had gone astray in their search. Aware more keenly that the
troubled appeals of “Tearful” and “Little Pal,” however absurd, were
the pains of genuine heartache, she became more and more tender in her
comments, and her correspondence grew apace. Now that she knew that her
job need not go on forever she tried honestly to run the column with all
her might. How stern she was with the flirt and the vamp and the jilt;
how sympathetic with the wounded on Love's great battle-field. “Great
stuff, great stuff!” Mr. Sikes would cry, in his coarse way, and
complimented her on the increasing “kick” of her department. Knowing
that he attributed the accelerated pulse of the Lovelorn column to mere
cynicism on her part, she did not dare wear her ring in the office for
fear of being joked about it. She used to think sadly that because she
had made sympathy with lovers a matter of trade, she herself, now
she was in love, could hope for no understanding. Although she hardly
admitted it, she longed for the day when she could drop the whole thing.
One evening Arthur met her at Piazza's, radiant. He was going off on a
long business trip for his publishing house, and they had promised him a
substantial raise when he returned. They sat down to dinner together in
the highest spirits. Arthur, in particular, was in a triumphant mood:
the publishing world, it seemed, lay under his feet.
“Great news, hey?” he said. “We'll be able to get married in the spring,
and you can kick out of that miserable job.”
“But, Arthur,” she said, “you know I have to take care of Mother. Don't
you think it would be wiser if I went on with the work for a while,
until your next raise comes? It would help a good deal, and we'd be able
to put a little away for a rainy day.”
“What?” he said. “Do you think I'm going to have my wife doing that
lovelorn stuff in the paper every day? It'd make me a laughing stock if
it ever got out. No, _sir!_ I haven't said much about it, because I knew
it couldn't be helped; but believe me, honey, that isn't the right kind
of job for you. I've often wondered you didn't feel that yourself.”
Ann was a little nettled that he should put it that way. Whatever her
private distaste for the Lovelorn column, it had served her well in a
difficult time, and had paid the doctor's bills at home. And she knew
how much honest devotion she had put into the task of trying to give
helpful counsel.
“At any rate,” she said, “it was through the column that we first met.”
What evil divinity sat upon Arthur's tongue that he could not see this
was the moment for a word of tenderness? But a young man flushed with
his first vision of business success, the feeling that now nothing can
prevent him from “making good,” is likely to be obtuse to the finer
shades of intercourse.
“Of course, dear, I could see you were different from the usual sob
sister of the press,” he said. “I could see you didn't really fall for
that stuff. It's because I love you so, I want to get you out of that
cheap, degrading sensational work. Most of those letters you get are
only fakes, anyway. I think Love ought to be sacred, not used as mere
circulation bait for a newspaper.”
Ann was a high-spirited girl, and this blunt criticism touched her in
that vivid, quivering region of the mind where no woman stops to reason.
But she made an honest attempt to be patient.
“But, Arthur,” she said; “there's nothing really cheap and degraded in
trying to help others who haven't had the same advantages we have. I
know a lot of the letters I print are silly and absurd, but not more so
than some of the books you publish.”
“Now, listen,” he said, loftily, “we won't quarrel about this. I don't
want you to go on with the job, that's all. It isn't fair to you. You
may take the work seriously, and put all sorts of idealism into it, but
it's not the right kind of job for a refined girl. How about the men in
the office? I'll bet I know what _they_ think of it. They probably think
it's a devil of a good joke, and laugh about it among themselves. Don't
you think I've seen that managing editor leering at you? That sort of
thing cheapens a girl among decent men. Every Lovelace in town feels he
has a right to send you mash-notes, I guess.”
Ann was furious.
“Well, you're the only one I ever paid any attention to,” she said,
blazing at him. “I'm sorry you think I've cheapened myself. I guess I
have, by letting you interfere with my affairs.”
She slipped the ring from her finger, and thrust it at him. Arthur saw,
too late, what he had done. She listened in scornful silence to his
miserable attempts to console her, which were doubly handicapped by the
old waiter hovering near. She was still adamant while he took her up
town. The only thing she said was when she reached the door of her
apartment.
“I don't want you to cheapen yourself. You needn't come any more.”
By this time Arthur also was thoroughly angry. The next morning he went
away on his business trip, realizing for the first time that he who has
the pass key to a human heart treads among dangerous explosives.