For weeks, then, Embury didn’t see Mamie. At first he dismissed the
whole thing with a careless, “Well, that little affair is over,”
a slight disappointment that Mamie hadn’t been a better sport. It
was just as well—Some one had told his parents, too, and they had
questioned him, rather teasingly, about the companion of his evening
walks. But they had been serious, at that. They didn’t want him to get
“mixed up” with any one.
Then he began to miss Mamie, miss the chance to talk about himself,
miss her soft femininity. To put her out of his mind he devoted himself
more thoroughly to Sophie.
After all, she was the girl for him, one of the Redding girls, one of
his own class. But when he talked to her he couldn’t help comparing
her to Mamie, whom he felt he knew very well. Mamie was fresh and
wholesome and innocent. She never went to parties or dances, things
like that. Sophie was full of little tricks, liked to say things with
double meanings—and giggle. If the girls had been changed around—Sophie
in Mamie’s place—he couldn’t quite understand it.
Sophie became too affectionate when he was with her, begged to light
his cigarettes, always putting her hands on his shoulders, pinching
his arm when anything exciting happened—and then pretending she
hadn’t meant to do it. She was an awfully nice girl, of course. But
she so definitely pursued him. He got tired of hearing her praises
sung at home, too. Her tricks of breaking engagements, pretending
indifference—they were worse than her affectionate moods. Her hair was
colourless, her eyes too light. Compared with Mamie....
As the days passed he missed Mamie more and more. He hated himself for
his stupidity—he found himself passing the Busy Bee on all possible
occasions, looking into the windows, over the display of assorted
candy, into the store. Sometimes, above the counters, he’d see her,
in her crisp white apron, her blonde, radiant hair framing her lovely
little face. She was always busy, always cheerful. Other girls wasted
their lives having good times. Mamie worked on, day after day—gentle,
good. Sometimes Embury thought her face looked serious, a bit sad. Did
she miss him?
Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer. He cursed himself for his
silliness—he went into the Busy Bee, bought some candy. He had promised
himself he wouldn’t annoy her—she was right—it was better that they
shouldn’t see each other any more. Yet he was shedding the dignity of
an Embury, acting the mere oaf, hanging around a candy store hoping for
a smile from a salesgirl. He should have known better, scorned such
behaviour. But there he was.
Mamie was busy. He waited—some one called to her and she went into
the back of the shop. He felt like a fool—didn’t dare ask for her.
He bought his candy and went out. Next day he passed the shop three
times. The day after he went inside again. He watched Mamie’s slim
fingers flying among the candy trays, putting chocolates into a box for
a customer. How he loved her hands. They were too fine for such work.
Why—he did love her—of course—that was it—he loved her—no use denying
it.
He looked at her—her lovely profile, her fair complexion. She
turned—smiled at him, rather a sad little smile—and went on packing
chocolates, an adorable colour surging over her face. She had to pack
chocolates—his girl! He loved her—and couldn’t even walk down the
street with her. He made a purchase and went out, hating himself the
rest of the day.
He took the candy out to the Reddings that evening. Ten or twelve of
the crowd were there. They turned on the Victrola and danced, then had
lemonade. Every one was in high spirits. Some one suggested a short
drive to cool off after dancing, so they all piled into the cars that
stood waiting for them along Maple Road. Embury drove his car and
Sophie sat next to him.
“Propose to her,” something told him. “Go on, get definitely attached,
have it over with. Then you’ll be settled, nothing to worry about. No
use thinking about Mamie—you can’t marry her.”
But he couldn’t propose, then nor later, when he was alone with her.
Sophie chattered. The soft, pleasant night seemed marred. He thought of
Mamie, their one ride together. He was sick of Sophie, of her tricks,
her silliness, his parents’ praise of her. He wanted Mamie.
He thought of Mamie before he fell asleep that night. He did love her.
He knew that. But he couldn’t marry her. Of course not. If he did,
though, his father would be horribly disappointed. But he’d get over
it—and his mother, too. It wasn’t that. Mamie was far prettier and
sweeter than any girl in the crowd. But she didn’t belong—it was just
that she lived in Gillen Row. The crowd would laugh at him.
What if they did laugh? Oh, well, it was something. He didn’t want to
hurt his future. Mamie was in another set—another world—that was all.
He couldn’t marry her. Still—he could see her. There were other things
beside marriage. He had to have his fling. He hadn’t had any affairs.
He was still young. Here was an affair, that was all. After that—you
can settle such things with money—there was time enough for marriage,
then—with Sophie, of course.
He woke up feeling quite the conquering hero, as if he had already
taken definite steps in his approach on Mamie. She was a dear, a little
innocent. He was a college man, a man of the world. Of course she was
no match for him. Still—he’d be a fool not to follow the thing up—she
was too pretty to leave—if not him, some one else then. Why not him?
At noon, when he left the office in his car, he drove up Gillen Row.
What a street! There had been no rain for days—everything was covered
with grey dust. There was a horrible sense of rust and decay and
dirtiness. He didn’t know which house was Mamie’s, but they all looked
alike in the sunshine, a squalid, ramshackle row,—how different from
his own home—from the Redding home, with their terraced lawns, their
pleasant green bushes and flowers. This was a different life from the
life he led, from the pleasant, comfortable ways of his people. And
yet—Mamie—