On the way home Evelyn scarcely noticed Martin. She was very happy,
thinking. They must have talked, though, for later she remembered that
she had answered questions that he had asked her. The ride seemed
rather bumpy. That’s all she remembered definitely about it.
At home, she undressed slowly, in a sort of a daze, still with the
lovely, breathless feeling in her throat. In bed she snuggled in the
pillows, closed her eyes.
It didn’t seem possible—and yet—this had happened to her ...
Northrup—Franklin Northrup—his hand ... his lips on her lips—kisses—his
arms about her, roughly tender.
She slept restlessly, waking up for long periods of pleasant thoughts.
When she awoke in the morning Martin was already splashing in the
bathroom.
“You don’t mind if I don’t get up for breakfast?” she called. “Marie
will have things the way you want them. I’ve a headache.”
“Sorry. Don’t bother about me. Lie with your eyes closed—you’ll feel
better.”
A few minutes later Evelyn heard Martin awkwardly pulling down the
shades. She was more annoyed that he was there at all than she was
grateful for this thoughtfulness. He interfered with her thoughts about
Northrup.
Martin finished dressing and stood beside her bed, put a hand on her
shoulder.
“Feel better?”
“Yes, a little. I’ll be all right.” She didn’t like the feel of his
hand, shrugged it away, pulled the covers higher.
He stamped out of the room in an attempt at quiet. She heard him in the
dining-room, a faint clatter of dishes. Finally he left the house. She
sighed with relief when she heard the door close.
Northrup ... now she could think comfortably of him again. He seemed
vague now, but still dear. She knew she should have felt guilty. She
knew Martin’s theory about things like that. She had heard him express
it so many times. If a woman has an affair with another man—and this
was an affair in a way—not only is the woman cheating her husband,
but the other man knows he is making a fool of the husband, too, and
thinks of him accordingly. In theory it seemed quite all right. Evelyn
didn’t want any one to make a fool of Martin—he was her husband. But
she remembered Northrup, his sleek light hair, his full underlip, his
half-closed eyes—how dear he had been when he had kissed her. He did
care, of course. He’d ring her up to-day—this morning. Of course he’d
telephone, just to talk to her, to assure her she hadn’t imagined
things....
She bathed slowly, taking as long as possible. She put some of her best
bath powder in the water. Then she dried briskly and rubbed talcum
powder into her skin. She examined her body in the long mirror of her
bathroom. She did have rather nice lines—for thirty-five. Her body
was straight and white. Of course—that was silly—thinking things—she
might kiss Northrup again, of course. But nothing further. It would be
dangerous—more than that. She was quite comfortably settled. She had
heard often enough that you can keep a man caring for you only as long
as you don’t yield too definitely to him. A few kisses ... yes. She
closed her eyes and imagined herself in Northrup’s arms again.
She knew that he would not call, especially this morning, without
making an appointment. But she put on her best negligée of
rose-coloured chiffon and braided her hair in a long braid down her
back. She felt it made her look younger arranged that way.
He would telephone about eleven. Of course he was the sort who rose
late. Until ten she busied herself with little things, a bit of
torn lace on another negligée, reading the newspapers and her mail.
What uninteresting mail—impersonal things from a lot of women—and
advertising! Why had she ever let herself get so settled?
That was it. Really, she was not old or settled at all. Thirty-five
isn’t old. Why, summer was barely over. This was a coming back to youth
again—a sort of Indian summer. Of course. She would be as lovely as she
had ever been. Lovelier! She had learned things about life, about men,
that a young girl could never know. After all, ten years of marriage
ought to have taught her something—how to get along with men, anyhow.
The telephone did not ring at eleven. But Northrup could ring up at any
time—in the afternoon, even. He’d said something about tea. Maybe he’d
ask her to-day....
What could she wear, to tea?
She went to her clothes closet, opened it wide, examined her things.
Suddenly a great truth about clothes seemed to come to her. She knew,
vaguely, that she had known it before, that some young women knew
it—some older ones, too—but that she had forgotten it entirely. The
truth was that there are definitely two kinds of clothes—clothes that
women wear for men and clothes that women wear for other women. She
knew now, as she had known, years before, that some women dress just
for men. She saw them every day. Yes, she had degenerated in clothes,
if she had ever been different. For her clothes were picked out because
they were “stylish,” because they were the clothes other women liked.
She took down a black satin dress. Yes—that was it—for women. Seated
on the edge of her bed, she snipped at the neck. It was too high, of
course. Lower, a bit of dainty lace. That’s what men like—plain things,
but striking and dainty and cuddly. Of course, she had known that all
the time. How could she have let herself go? Yet she had felt that she
had been keeping up with things. She felt that she knew, instinctively,
now, the kind of clothes she wanted.
She finished the black dress, altered another gown with a few stitches.
She’d have a seamstress in the house. She knew what her clothes
needed—shorter sleeves, lower neck and touches of lace at the throat,
hats that were little and trim and would show her hair at the sides,
or big hats, floppy and mysterious. How could she have forgotten? Why
hadn’t she dressed that way always? She would show Martin that she
really needed clothes, get him to buy her some.
Martin ... what a stupid, impossible fellow he was! How could she have
ever thought differently? How stupid to let her put things over him.
Why, she could put anything over Martin.
Then it came to her that she didn’t want to put things over Martin,
that she didn’t want to consider him or have to worry about him at all.
Why, his being around, the necessary thoughts about him, were really
too stupid, too dreadful. She didn’t want him near her at all, in any
way.
Martin—how could she have stood him, all these years? How could she
have liked him—stupid and awkward and dull, with his bristly moustache
and his unfeeling kisses? She couldn’t stand any more. That was
certain. If she went away....
She dreamed, then, over her sewing. After all—if she left Martin ...
could get a divorce ... Martin would be good enough to let her get it
... then she could marry Northrup. That was it—marry Northrup, be with
him all the time ... wait for him in the evening, as she waited for
Martin now.
Martin ... what good was Martin, anyhow? She remembered that Martin
had increased his life insurance. It was all made out to her. If
anything happened to Martin ... an automobile accident ... Martin made
Jeffry drive very carefully, but didn’t accidents happen every day?
Twenty-five thousand dollars—that was something. Even the interest on
that, with what Martin had saved ... not so much, but she wouldn’t have
to go to Northrup penniless, anyhow. She pictured Martin dying of half
a dozen painless illnesses or accidents, saw herself his devoted nurse,
saw herself in widow’s weeds, very becoming ones ... afterwards ... a
few weeks afterwards....
She ate luncheon, hardly noticing what was served to her. It was two
o’clock. Northrup had not telephoned. Martin telephoned to tell her he
had got seats for a play she had wanted to see—she was to meet him at
the hotel where they were to dine at seven. Plays, restaurants ... they
seemed stupid now, empty, without Northrup—if he could be there—if she
were with him.
What if he didn’t know her telephone number? She had told him, of
course, but it was a difficult number to remember. It was not in the
telephone book. Maybe he didn’t even remember her name. That was
delicious—and he had kissed her!
She got his card from her dressing-table drawer, where she had put it
the night before, fingered it, went to the telephone. She would call
him, say just a word, ring off. He’d want to talk more with her, then.
She felt that she must hear his voice, low, deep, tender. What lovely
things he had said to her!
She gave the number to the operator. Her voice broke into a falsetto.
The line was busy. She drew little idle squares on the fancy telephone
book cover some woman had given her for Christmas. A minute later she
rang again. She heard central ringing the number this time. A minute’s
ring. A masculine voice. Then,
“Well?”
“Is this Mr. Northrup?” Evelyn asked in her softest tones.
“No. It’s Northrup’s apartment.”
“May I speak to him, please?”
A pause, then,
“Who is this, please?”
“Mrs. Barron.”
He was at home, then. She would hear his voice in just a minute. He had
company—of course that was why he hadn’t telephoned her.
“I’ll see if Mr. Northrup is at home.”
She waited. It wasn’t a servant’s voice. Northrup had said that he had
a Japanese valet who took rather good care of him, but Evelyn felt
sure it wasn’t a Japanese who had answered the telephone. How could a
visitor not know if Northrup was at home?
The same voice,
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Northrup isn’t in. If you’ll leave your number I’ll
have him call you when he returns.”
Evelyn gave her number, hung up the receiver. What did it mean?
Northrup not at home—and the other man had to find out—in a two-room
apartment! The voice had sounded rather amused, but of course that was
imagination. But, if he weren’t at home, why hadn’t he telephoned to
her? If he were at home, why didn’t he want to speak to her? Because
another man was there? It hadn’t been Northrup’s voice, though. Of
course that wasn’t possible.
She wandered around the apartment. The day had turned from grey to
a misty rain. It was not nice enough to go out. Evelyn hated rain.
Anyhow, until seven there really was no place to go. She telephoned the
garage, so that her car would call for her at half-past six.
She played a little on the piano, but she did not play very well. Then
she put a roll in it—it was one of the reproducing players that played
not badly for its kind. She chose several sentimental rolls, and then,
seated on the couch in quite the same position she had sat the night
before on Northrup’s couch, she thought of him. She tucked one hand
under her cheek, the way his hand had been under her cheek. Didn’t he
care, really?
Her restlessness grew greater. She must talk to some one. She rang up
two women friends. They were not at home. Then she thought of Maud
Durland. Of course! Maud could tell her things about Northrup. She
wouldn’t say much—nor let Maud suspect. Maud was always having affairs
with other men, but she was the first to talk if any one else had a
little affair. Maud was at home.
“You had the most wonderful party last night,” Evelyn started in gaily
enough. “You do have lovely parties.”
“Yes.” Maud’s tone was pleasantly self-congratulatory, “every one
seemed to have a nice time. Some punch, eh? Rogers and Maxwell and
Hamilton each brought bottles and I said, ‘Oh, be a sport and dump
’em all in the punch,’ and they did, and see what happened. Nothing
exploded, at that, but it did add quite a lot of pep to the party.”
“It certainly did. I didn’t neglect the punch, you bet. By the way,
tell me about a man I met—rather interesting—Northrup his name was—”
“Franklin Northrup. He lives in my building. Does lyrics. A dear, isn’t
he?”
“Rather nice.”
“Northrup had a beautiful bun on, did you notice? Still, he’s more fun
with a bun on than not. Knows how to carry it. He’s rather a dignified,
retiring fellow when he’s strictly sober, if at all. He—he didn’t by
any chance make love to you, did he, Evelyn?”
“Why—the idea—why of course not....”
“Yes he did, Evelyn. Naughty, naughty! Don’t tell fibs to mamma! But
don’t let that worry you. He’s forgotten all about it to-day. Meet him
to-morrow, sober, and he’ll be a perfect gentleman. Meet him a bit
stippled and he’ll start in all over again. He’s the lovin’est man any
one ever saw. No harm, you know—you needn’t feel ‘ruint’ over it or
anything like that. He’s just sort of soft and sentimental. And Evelyn,
he’d make love to a post or one of the Hartman girls if he were in the
mood. When he’s sober he’s in love with Marjorie Blake. He dedicates
all of his music to her. And did you notice a tall, dark-haired fellow
named Millard—?”