During the ensuing days Mason was hopeless for work.
From the office books he found out where she lived, slyly as he
supposed, but not so slyly that the information clerk didn't tell
someone, who told someone who teased Georgia at the luncheon club, not
thereby displeasing her. For he was a good-looking fellow and capable;
furthermore, he had always kept himself to himself, so putting several
noses out of joint, it was said.
He had moments of anguished self-reproach as he sat in his room in his
boarding house, his chair tilted against the wall under the gas jet,
his coat on his bed, his derby hat tilted back on his head.
He knew that his life had been utterly unworthy. He had drunk it to
the lees, pretty near. But now he was through with all that.
Hereafter, for her sake, he would conquer himself and others.
His sense of beauty was limited by inheritance and by disuse, but now
he began to draw upon all the poetry in his soul--not to write to her,
but to think of her.
His imagination, naturally fertile and strengthened by the practice of
his profession, centered itself on the question of his first kiss from
her--where, when and how should it happen? He called all great lovers
from Romeo to Robert W. Chambers to his aid--it must be under the moon,
the fragrance about them. And a lake, a little lake, for the moon to
shine upon and magically increase its magic. He remembered the moon on
the river back in Rogersville, with the other girl--the first one.
What mere children they were. That was puppy love, but this was love;
love such as no man ever felt before for a woman.
He was hard hit.
The lake suggested a train of thought, so he packed his bag on Saturday
and went to southern Wisconsin. The resort dining room was full of
noisy youths and maidens who, in his decided opinion had no proper
reverence for love, though they seemed perfectly amorous whenever he
suddenly came upon a pair of them as much as one hundred yards from the
hotel.
He chartered a flatbottom after supper to row out alone and contemplate
the moon and her, but the voices of the night and the frogs were
overwhelmed by the detestable mandolins tinkling "My Wife's Gone to the
Country, Hurray."
When finally he turned in he discovered there was a drummers' poker
party on the other side of the pine partition, so it wasn't until
nearly daylight he dozed off, to wake a couple of hours later when the
dishes began to rattle.
The boat concessionaire reported pickerel in the lake and he joined the
Sunday piscatorial posse. He returned with two croppies and the record
of many bites, mostly on himself.
He concluded he wasn't interested in fishing anyway. It was just a
device to cheat himself and make himself suppose he was having a good
time. He couldn't have a good time and wouldn't if he could, until he
knew her, until at least he knew her. Why he had never said ten words
to her more than "Good morning" and "Good evening." He would call on
her; he had her address. He would go to her apartment and ring the
bell and say, "Miss Connor, I have come to call on you. Do you mind?"
No, that would hardly do. It was too bold. He mustn't seem at all
crude to her, but mannerly and suave and self-possessed. A girl, and
especially one of her sort, would object to crudeness. He must be very
courtly, knightly. Flowers on her desk every morning, perhaps, not a
card, not a word. A handful of sweet blossoms each day to greet her
and bear her silent testimony that there was one who---- She would
know, of course, in due time whence they came. Not that he would ever
so much as hint at his gifts, but her woman's intuition would tell her.
And when she did realize in this way his silent though passionate
devotion, she would thank him, gently and sadly, and a bond would be
made between them.
But then, what if the other people in the office had intuition, too, or
saw him bringing in flowers! No, decidedly that wouldn't do.
And then--just in time for him to catch the 3:40--a blinding flash of
warning illumined his whole being. What if, while he was there
shilly-shallying at a summer resort, some other fellow was with her in
Chicago at that very moment!
"What if"--a ridiculous way to put it. Wasn't it sure in the nature of
things, that at that very moment some other man was with her?
He caught the 3:40. He would call on her that very evening and if
indeed he didn't declare himself bluntly in so many words--hadn't he
heard of numberless women who had been won at first sight!--he would at
least intimate to her strongly, unmistakably, that she was the object
of his respectful consideration and attention.
There were others in the field. It was time he declared himself in,
too.
It wasn't until 5:37, when the train reached Clybourn Junction, that he
began to repent his precipitancy. He was going to see her again in the
office to-morrow, wasn't he? Wouldn't it look queer if he went out to
call on her to-night without warning? She might be wholly unprepared
for callers and annoyed.
But his presumable rival bobbed up again and spoiled his supper, so
after dropping his bag at home, he walked presently into the entry way
of 2667 Pearl Avenue. Her name was not on the left side; perhaps she
had moved. No, here on the right, floor 3, in letters of
glory--"Connor." Above it, "Talbot."
Who was Talbot? Married sister, roommate or landlady from whom she
sublet? He raised his thumb to the bell. He had never before
experienced a moment of such acute consciousness.
Wait a second--she might not be in. He walked out and looked up at the
third floor right. There was certainly a light, a bright one, and the
window was open and the curtain fluttering out.
Somebody was in. It might be Talbot. In that case he wouldn't go up
or leave his name either. It certainly was none of Talbot's business,
whoever Talbot was.
He pressed the button under her name. "Yes?" Heavens above, it was
she, Georgia, the woman herself.
"Yes, who is it!" came the voice once more.
"Stevens."
"Mr. Stevens?" with a decided tone of interrogation. Evidently she did
not place him at all. Probably not, with so many other men about her.
It would be absurd to suppose anything else. She didn't place
him--might not even recognize him out of the office.
"Mason Stevens of the office."
"Oh, Mr. Stevens of the office. How do you do?" and she spoke with a
delightful access of cordiality. "Will you come up?"
"Just for a minute, if I may. I won't keep you long."
"Wait, I'll let you in." The click-click-click sounded and he was on
his way upstairs. She opened the door for him.
A quick glance. There was no other man in the room, anyway.
"Good evening," she said. "Won't you come in?"
"Why, yes," then very apologetically; "that is, if I'm not putting you
out."
"No, indeed." He sat and paused. She smiled and did not help him.
"You're nicely located here, Miss Connor."
"Oh, yes, we like it."
"Near the express station?"
"Yes. I usually get a seat in the morning, but not coming back, of
course."
"About three blocks, isn't it?"
"Three long ones."
"A nice walk."
"Yes, this time of year, but not so nice in winter when they don't
clean the snow off the sidewalks."
He felt that it was a bit jerky. Perhaps he should first have asked
her permission to call. What a goat he was not to think of that
beforehand instead of now. He paused until the pause grew
uncomfortable.
She tried to help him out, "We're out of the smoke belt, that's one
thing."
He was seated in a rocking chair and began to rock violently, then
suddenly he stopped and leaned toward her, his elbows on his knees.
"I've been slow getting to the point," he remarked abruptly, "but I
came here on business."
"Oh, I wasn't just sure what."
Stevens took half a dozen life insurance advertising folders from his
pocket. "You know this literature we're using," he said, running two
or three through his fingers and indicating them by their titles, "'Do
You Want Your Wife to Want When She's a Widow?' 'Friendship for the
Fatherless,' 'Death's Dice Are Loaded.'"
"Oh, yes." She took them from him and read aloud. "'Over the Hills to
the Poorhouse,' with a photograph of it, 'Will Your Little Girl Have to
Scrub?' with thumbnail pictures of scrub ladies. Ugh, what a gloomy
trade we're in, aren't we, Mr. Stevens?"
"This is the line of talk that gets the business." He spoke earnestly,
tapping the folders. "You can't make papa dig up premiums for forty or
fifty years unless you first scare him and scare him blue about his
family."
"Yes, I suppose so."
"And what I came for is--well, will you--would you just as soon help me
get up some more of these?"
"You mean work with you on them?" She was truly surprised.
"Exactly."
She hesitated and then she said it was impossible, but that she
appreciated his kind compliment, was flattered by it and thanked him
deeply, deeply. For, of course, she realized that Mr. Stevens was one
of the very best men in town at that sort of work and she was afraid
she couldn't possibly be of any real use to him.
"Not at all, not at all;" he was talking business now and waved aside
her objections with his customary confidence. Everybody always
objected to his plans for them when he began talking, but in the end he
was apt to change their minds. That was why he was considered a
premier solicitor. "You've a clear head and a good ear for words,
that's what's needed, and----"
"But--" she tried to interrupt.
"And ideas, that's the point, ideas. You're clever."
"What makes you think so?"
"I don't think so; I know."
"I'm flattered," she said firmly. "But no--really."
"Well, I won't take that for a definite answer yet." Of course not. He
never did. "I want you to think it over. I have the utmost confidence
in the scheme and your ability to carry it out. You can tell me Monday
in the office what you decide."
"I can tell you now, Mr. Stevens."