"I'm thinking of the difference that would understandably exist between
a guy who was paying--and a guy in love with you."
"It upset her."
"So she tried to duck you."
He was still more surprised. "She told me she'd be out of town for a
couple of weeks."
"And you waited--"
"--the all-time eager beaver. And phoned. She sounded--odd. She asked
me if I'd like to come up to her place for dinner--said she didn't feel
like going out. She cooked. I know now that she had planned to tell
me--that night. Instead--well, she didn't. She said she worked some as
a model--which she had done. She said she had an income--not said, just
hinted. I asked her to marry me--around three A.M."
"Just what did she do about that?"
"She cried. Quietly. Told me that she'd taken a fall out of
marriage--which was also true. Didn't want to risk it again--not
without being sure of the guy. And said there weren't any such guys
as--she needed."
"Pretty close to being pretty nice."
Paul answered the door, took the drink, and put his own dollar on
Karl's tray. "It went that way for about two months. Then she told
me." His ice clinked without his volition. "The whole story--straight
out--beginning at dinner one evening in the Waldorf. The guy she
married--a smug, sadistic twirp. Getting divorced. Coming to New York.
Scrimping along on modeling jobs. Running into Hattie Blaine. Ever
heard of her?"
Who hadn't? Hattie was madam to Manhattan's upper set. I gave a nod.
"Hattie sold her on the idea--after quite a campaign. Marcia went
to work. That was about three years ago. I took her home that
night--placidly enough--and went for the walk that lasts till they put
out the sidewalks again. Then I phoned Johann I was sick--and got sick,
drinking. For a month or so more, I tried the old Presbyterian anodyne:
work. No use."
"Not when you're young."
"Later?"
"It comes with time. Go ahead."
"When I had all but burned out my main bearings, I phoned her. Maybe
you won't believe it--but Marcia was going to phone me that evening. We
talked it over. She moved to my flat and got a job."
"So?"
"We might get married."
"She want to?"
"She refuses--now. I'm not always certain I want to, myself." He stuck
his forefinger into his shoe and tugged at the counter. "And I don't
know why. Why I want to marry her. Why I'm uncertain."
"How do your--?" I broke that off.
But he got it. "My friends think she's swell. You gathered she was
good-looking. She's a tall, slender gal with light-brown hair and blue
eyes. Quiet. You'd never think--! But I went into that, didn't I? She
attended college, in Iowa, for a year--and she likes to read. By that I
mean--"
"Nobody else--?"
"Christ, no. They think she's a working gal--which she is, now: a nice
friend of mine."
"Someday--" I stopped there--again.
"Yes." His face whitened. "A putty-chinned, overweight lodge brother
from Keokuk, just tight enough to miss the stony stare and come up with
the big hello. It's happened."
"I see."
"She went home and had hysterics."
"Bring her over."