A year later she fell in love again, a faint echo of what she had felt
for Rodney. He was blond, too, but in a faded way, just as her love for
him was faded. There were some visits to the theatre—Fred didn’t care
for dancing—a few parties, his salary was small. Then she found that
Fred, too, had definite ideas against matrimony—would not marry until
his income was almost twice its present size.
Corinna knew the type—you go with them and go with them for years
and years, and become middle-aged; finally, after every one you know
is settled, you either separate and remain single or lapse almost
unconsciously into matrimony. Not if she knew herself.
Of course she wouldn’t be Fred’s slave if she married him. She knew
that. But—waiting years and years and then maybe his changing his mind
or his salary never growing after all—It was not what you’d call a real
opportunity. Corinna’s pale love for Fred faded out altogether. She
broke an engagement or two, failed to keep a telephone appointment—was
surprised to find how little she missed him.
Matrimonial chances did not come in great numbers to Corinna. In
fact, during the next two years she did not have a single proposal
of marriage nor any chance that might have been twisted into a
proposal. Men took her to the theatre or to dances—she was an
excellent dancer—told her their troubles, allowed her to be pleasantly
entertaining. She coquetted and flirted and giggled—talked to the girls
she knew about what a wonderful time she was having and how popular
she was. One at a time the other girls she knew married and went to
housekeeping in little apartments. She was twenty-four. It worried her,
definitely, now, not being married.
Then Arthur Slossen came to work at the woollen factory where Corinna
was now employed—she had left the hardware concern several years before
and took dictation now from a grandfatherly old fellow who suffered
with asthma. Arthur Slossen was not handsome. Corinna had no illusions
about that. He was insignificant-looking, rather retiring and had a
slight accent, showing unmistakably that he was foreign-born, a stigma
in the set in which Corinna moved.
But, because he was a man and new, Corinna smiled at him and coquetted.
She was not surprised when he asked her, three weeks after he entered
the office, to go to the theatre with him. He was as unattractive as
any man Corinna had ever known. He lacked, alike, all vices and virtues
that would have made for interest. He was gentle, even gentlemanly.
He was fairly well educated, but, outside of reading the newspapers
morning and evening, he had no interest in the printed world. From
his evening newspaper he cut out the sermons written by a well-known
minister and read from them aloud occasionally. He was kindly and meant
well by every one. Altogether, Corinna found him as boring as possible.
But, because he was a man and an escort, Corinna smiled at him, made
eyes at him, went through her whole repertoire of tricks. Almost
mechanically, she led him on, as she had tried to lead on other men
before him.
One night, after she had “gone with” him for about six months, he
asked her to marry him. The proposal came almost as a surprise to
Corinna. Of course she had definitely played for a proposal—yet she
had always played for proposals and had never received them. And here
was Arthur Slossen—less of a catch than any man she had ever known—and
he had asked her to marry him. To be sure there was really nothing
definitely the matter with him. He was fairly nice-looking. He was a
little stoop-shouldered, a little indefinite. He had a foreign accent
and rather an embarrassed, humble way. But he was really quite all
right. As attractive as her father must have been, or her Uncle Will.
After all—a husband.... She could stop work in the office—she had never
become a real private secretary, after all, and her bosses were always
married and paid no attention to her. If she hadn’t any chances until
now, she wasn’t likely to have any after twenty-five—twenty-five is
getting on—her complexion wasn’t as good as it used to be, her face was
becoming broader, flatter, like her mother’s.
V
Corinna and Arthur were married in June, and Corinna’s friends spoke
sentimentally about “the month of brides” and gave her a kitchen
shower. The couple went to housekeeping in a four-room apartment and
Corinna started in to learn how to cook—she’d never paid much attention
to kitchen arts before, being in school, first, and later busy all day
in the office.
Corinna now had more time to notice Arthur. And when she looked at
him—and looked at the husbands of the other girls she knew—he seemed
as desirable as any of them. He had a foreign accent and round
shoulders and no sparkle of style—but what were those others? They
had other faults just as glaring. But Corinna was glad that at least
her generation did not become slaves of their husbands. And, as she
rejoiced in this, she presently made a new discovery; she found that
she actually despised Arthur. And, despising him, she watched her girl
friends, talked with them, and found that all of the other young
married women she knew despised their husbands, too.
She knew, too, why she despised Arthur. It was because of his meekness
and his stupidity, his lack of life and excitement—because, in marrying
him, she had definitely killed any chances of a romantic marriage
that might, some day, have come to her. But, more than that. Corinna
knew that she despised him—and that other women despised _their_
husbands—_because she had been able to marry him_. All other men she
had known—Rodney and Fred and the others, a man named Phillips and one
named Billy Freer and Jim Henderson—they had, in one way or another,
managed to escape her. They had been cleverer than she—and avoided
matrimony altogether, or at least with her. It had been a duel, her
wits and tricks against theirs—and they had won. Only Arthur had lost,
simple Arthur, too stupid to get away. So she despised him because he
had allowed himself to be caught—and to be caught by her tricks—old
tricks, worn-out tricks, tricks at twenty-five, tricks that had failed
to ensnare the others.
Life settled down, monotonously. Because she despised Arthur, Corinna
was able to disregard him almost entirely. She would spend whole days,
slovenly, in a soiled negligée, washing her face carelessly half an
hour before he came home, or allowing it to remain daubed with cold
cream, serving delicatessen dinners or cold meats and beans. She had no
scruples about cheating him. She was true to him because no pleasant
opportunities presented themselves.
Finally, bored at staying home so much, she met men she knew down-town
and had luncheon with them or went to the matinée. She even flirted
with good-looking men on the street or in hotel lobbies and then
had tea. The men were not very interesting nor were the flirtations
very exciting—the most desirable men wouldn’t notice her and those
who did got awfully “fresh”—but it was better than nothing. What if
Arthur _did_ find out? What could he do? Kick her out? She’d like to
see him. What if he did? She hadn’t done anything actually bad. She
was a married woman, had “Mrs.” in front of her name. It wasn’t as
if she were a poor worm, like her mother had been. She was a good
stenographer, could get a position any day, she knew that. Of course
it was easier, spending her days in negligée reading magazines or
eating candy, or down-town shopping or flirting. It was a lot better,
more comfortable, than working. But, if the worst came to the worst,
it wouldn’t be so awfully bad if she left Arthur. It wasn’t as if she
couldn’t get along. Poor old Arthur—he ought to be glad he had her—who
was he to be considered, anyhow?
She thought of Rodney. His proposal no longer seemed insulting now. She
remembered Rodney—his wonderful rough blond hair, his narrow grey eyes,
his kisses. She was no longer a young girl with a necessary virtue.
She was a married woman now, a woman of the world, not a silly little
working girl. If she wanted a little affair....
She tried to reach Rodney over the telephone. He had left that position
years before. No one there knew where he was. She sent a note to him,
addressed to his former home. It was returned to her. Of course, she’d
meet him on the street some day. In the meantime....
She spent as much money as she could on clothes, as little as possible
on the household. Arthur was pretty good about money. He was getting
ahead, too. He had two raises the first year of their marriage.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if, after all, he made good? She had never
thought of that possibility, of his making money. He had been a pitiful
way out—a way out of working and the stigma of being unmarried. What if
he became something—improved?