Then, slowly, cautiously, she let herself out. He heard her moving
composedly along the hall.
He felt weak. And deeply guilty. For a long time this moment had been a
possibility; now it had taken place. What if some one had seen her come
in! What if she should come again! What if she should tell!...
He found one hair brush on the floor, the other on the bed, and brushed
his hair; donned his coat, buttoning it and smoothing it down about
his shapely torso with a momentary touch of complacency; glanced at the
mirror; twisted up his moustache; then stood waiting for his colour to
go down.
Suddenly, with one of his quick impulses, he sprang at the bookcase,
drew out the _Epictetus_--it was a little book, bound in 'ooze' calf of
an olive-green colour--and read these words (the book opened there):--
'To the rational animal only is the irrational intolerable.
He lowered the book and repeated the phrase aloud.
3
A little later--red about the ears, and given to sudden starts when the
swinging pantry doors opened to let a student waiter in or out--he sat,
quite erect, in the dining room and bolted a boarding-house breakfast of
stewed prunes, oatmeal, fried steak, fried potatoes, fried mush swimming
in brown sugar syrup, and coffee. The _Discourses of Epictetus_ lay at
his elbow.
After this he walked--stiffly self-conscious, book under arm--over to
Simpson Street, and took a chair and an _Inter Ocean_ at Schultz and
Schwartz's, among the line of those waiting to be shaved.
This accomplished he paused outside, on the curb, to pencil this entry
in a red pocket account-book:--
'Shave--10 c.'
He wavered when passing Donovan's; stepped in and consumed a frosted
maple shake. Which necessitated the further entry in the red book:--
'Soda--10 c.'
In front of Berger's grocery he met Martha Caldwell. They walked
together to the corner.
Martha was a sizable girl, about as tall as Henry, with large blue eyes,
an attractively short nose, abundant brown hair coiled away under her
flat straw hat, and a general air of good sense. Martha was really a
goodlooking young woman, and would have been popular had not Henry stood
in her light. She had a small gift at drawing (the Gibson copies
in Henry's room were hers) and danced gracefully enough. Monday and
Thursday evenings were his regular calling times; and there were so many
other evenings when he was expected to take her to this house or that
with 'the crowd' that the other local 'men' had long since given up
calling at her house. But they were not engaged.
On this occasion there was constraint between them. They spoke of
the lovely weather. She, knowing Henry pretty well, looked with some
curiosity at his book. Henry glanced sidelong at her across a wide
bottomless gulf, and stroked his moustache. He was groping desperately
for words. He began to resent her. He presented an outer front of stem
self-control.
At the corner they stopped and stood in a silence that grew rapidly
embarrassing.
She lowered her eyes and dug with the point of her parasol in the turf
by the stone walk.
He thrust both hands into his trousers' pockets, spread his feet, and
stared across at the long veranda of the Sunbury House. It seemed to him
that he had never been so unhappy.
'Are you'--Martha began; hesitated; went on--'were you thinking of
coming around this evening?'
'Why--it's Thursday, ain't it?'
'Yes,' she said, 'it's Thursday.'
'Listen, Martha!' Was it possible that she suspected something? But how
could she! His ears were getting red again. He knew it. She must never,
never know about Mamie!... 'Listen, I may have to go down to Mrs Arthur
V. Henderson's.'
'Oh,' she murmured, 'that musicale.'
'Yes.' Eagerness was creeping into his voice. 'Anne Mayer Stelton.
She's been over studying with Marchesi, you know. Mrs Henderson asked
specially to have me cover it.'
'Why don't you go?'
'Well--you see how it is. Of course, I'd hate----'
'You'd better go.' Saying which Martha turned away down Filbert Avenue,
and left him standing there.
He bit his lip; pulled at his moustache. 'I ought to do something for
her,' he thought. 'Buy some flowers--or a box of Devoe's.'
This was an idle thought; for the day, Thursday, lay much too close to
the financially lean end of the week to permit of flowers or candy. And
he hadn't asked anywhere for a dollar of credit these nearly two years.
Still, he felt faintly the warmth of his kindly intention.
It didn't seem altogether right to let her go like that. They had not
before drifted so near a quarrel. On the farther side of the street he
paused, and glanced down the avenue.
A smart trap that he had never seen before had pulled up, midway of the
block. An impeccable coachman sat stiffly upon an indubitable box. A man
who appeared to have reddish hair, dressed in a brown cutaway suit and
Derby hat, a man with a pronounced if close-cropped red moustache and
a suggestively interesting band of mourning about his left sleeve, was
leaning out, gracefully, graciously, talking to--Martha. And Martha was
listening.
Henry moved on, little confused pangs of quite unreasonable jealousy
stabbing at his heart, and entered the business-and-editorial office of
_The Weekly Voice of Sunbury_, where he worked.
Here he laid down the _Discourses of Epictetus_ and asked Humphrey
Weaver, untitled editor of the paper (old man Boice, the owner, would
never permit any one but himself to be known by that title), for the
galley proofs of the week's 'Personal Mention.'