There was no acknowledgment of his note to Jacqueline the day following;
none the next day, or the next. It was only when telephoning to
Silverwood he learned by chance from Mrs. Quant that Jacqueline had been
at the house every day as usual, busy in the armoury with the work that
took her there.
He had fully expected that she would send a substitute; had assumed that
she would not wish to return and take the chance of his being there.
What she had thought of his note to her, what she might be thinking of
him, had made him so miserable that even the unwisdom of excess could
not dull the pain of it or subdue the restless passion ever menacing him
with a shameful repudiation of the words he had written her. He had
fought one weakness with another, and there was no strength in him now.
He knew it, but stood on guard.
For he knew, too, in his heart that he had nothing to offer her except a
sentiment which, in the history of man, has never been anything except
temporary. With it, of course, and part of it, was a gentler
inclination--love, probably, of one sort or another--with it went also
genuine admiration and intellectual interest, and sympathy, and
tenderness of some unanalysed kind.
But he knew that he had no intention of marrying anybody--never, at
least, of marrying out of his own social environment. That he
understood fully; had wit and honesty enough to admit to himself. And so
there was no way--nothing, now, anyway. He had settled that
definitely--settled it for her and for himself, unrequested; settled, in
fact, everything except how to escape the aftermath of restless pain for
which there seemed to be no remedy so far--not even the professional
services of old Doctor Time. However, it had been only three days--three
sedative pills from the old gentleman's inexhaustible supply. It is the
regularity of taking it, more than the medicine itself which cures.
On the fourth day, he emerged from the unhappy seclusion of his rooms
and ventured into the Olympian Club, where he deliberately attempted to
anæsthetise his badly battered senses. But he couldn't. Cairns found him
there, sitting alone in the library--it was not an intellectual
club--and saw what Desboro had been doing to himself by the white
tensity of his features.
"Look here," he said. "If there's really anything the matter with you,
why don't you go into business and forget it? You can't fool real
trouble with what you buy in bottles!"
"What business shall I go into?" asked Desboro, unoffended.
"Stocks or literature. All the ginks who can't do anything else go into
stocks or literature."
Desboro waved away the alternatives with amiable urbanity.
"Then run for your farms and grow things for market. You could do that,
couldn't you? Even a Dutchess County millionaire can run a milk-route."
"I don't desire to grow milk," explained Desboro pleasantly.
Cairns regarded him with a grin of anxiety.
"You're jingled," he concluded. "That is, you are as jingled as _you_
ever get. Why?"
"No reason, thanks."
"It isn't some girl, is it? _You_ never take them seriously. All the
same, _is_ it?"
Desboro smiled: "Do you think it's likely, dear friend?"
"No, I don't. But whatever you're worrying about isn't improving your
personal beauty. Since you hit this hamlet you've been on one continuous
tootlebat. Why don't you go back to Westchester and hoe potatoes?"
"One doesn't hoe them in January, you know," said Desboro, always
deprecatingly polite. "Please cease to trouble yourself about me. I'm
quite all right, thanks."
"You've resigned from a lot of clubs and things, I hear."
"Admirably reported, dear friend, and perfectly true."
"Why?"
"Motives of economy; nothing more serious, John."
"You're not in any financial trouble, are you?"
"I--ah--possibly have been a trifle indiscreet in my expenditures--a
little unfortunate in my investments, perhaps. You are very kind to ask
me. It may afford you some gratification to learn that eventually I
anticipate an agreeable return to affluence."
Cairns laughed: "You _are_ jingled all right," he said. "I recognise
the urbane symptoms of your Desboro ancestors."
"You flatter them and me," said Desboro, bowing. "They were the limit,
and I'm nearing it."
"Pardon! You have arrived, sir," said Cairns, returning the salute with
exaggerated gravity.
They parted with pomp and circumstance, Desboro to saunter back to his
rooms and lie limply in his arm chair beside an empty fireplace until
sleep overcame him where he sat. And he looked very young, and white,
and somewhat battered as he lay there in the fading winter daylight.
The ringing racket of his telephone bell aroused him in total darkness.
Still confused by sleep, he groped for the electric light switch, could
not find it; but presently his unsteady hand encountered the telephone,
and he unhooked the receiver and set it to his ear.
At first his imagination lied to him, and he thought it was Jacqueline's
distant voice, though he knew in his heart it could not be.
"Jim," repeated the voice, "what are you doing this evening?"
"Nothing. I was asleep. It's you, Elena, isn't it?"
"Of course. To whom are you in the habit of talking every evening at
seven by special request?"
"I didn't know it was seven."
"That's flattering to me. Listen, Jim, I'm coming to see you."
"I've told you a thousand times it can't be done----"
"Do you mean that no woman has ever been in your apartments?"
"You can't come," he repeated obstinately. "If you do, it ends my
interest in your various sorrows. I mean it, Elena."
She laughed: "I only wanted to be sure that you are still afraid of
caring too much for me. Somebody told me a very horrid thing about you.
It was probably a lie--as long as you are still afraid of me."
He closed his eyes patiently and leaned his elbow on the desk, waiting
for her to go on or to ring off.
"Was it a lie, Jim?"
"Was what a lie?"
"That you are entertaining a very pretty girl at Silverwood
House--unchaperoned?"
"Do you think it likely?"
"Why not? They say you've done it before."
"Nobody has been there except on business. And, after all, you know, it
doesn't----"
"Yes, it does concern me! Oh, Jim, _are_ you being horrid--when I'm so
unhappy and helpless----"
"Be careful what you say over the wire!"
"I don't care who hears me. If you mean anybody in your apartment house,
they know my voice already. I want to see you, Jim----"
"No!"
"You said you'd be friendly to me!"
"I am--by keeping away from you."
"Do you mean that I am never to see you at all?"
"You know well enough that it isn't best, under the circumstances."
"You could come here if you only would. He is not in town to-night----"
"Confound it, do you think I'm that sort?"
"I think you are very absurd and not very consistent, considering the
things that they say you are not too fastidious to do----"
"Will you please be a little more reticent over the telephone!"
"Then take me out to dinner somewhere, where we _can_ talk!"
"I'm sorry, but it won't do."
"I thought you'd say that. Very well, then, listen: they are singing
_Ariane_ to-night; it's an 8:15 curtain. I'll be in the Barkley's box
very early; nobody else will arrive before nine. Will you come to me at
eight?"
"Yes, I'll do that for a moment."
"Thank you, dear. I just want to be happy for a few minutes. You don't
mind, do you?"
"It will be very jolly," he said vaguely.
* * * * *
The galleries were already filling, but there were very few people in
the orchestra and nobody at all to be seen in the boxes when Desboro
paused before a door marked with the Barkleys' name. After a second's
hesitation, he turned the knob, stepped in, and found Mrs. Clydesdale
already seated in the tiny foyer, under the hanging shadow of her ermine
coat--a charming and youthful figure, eyes and cheeks bright with
trepidation and excitement.
"What the dickens do you suppose prompted Mrs. Hammerton to arrive at
such an hour?" she said, extending her hand to Desboro. "That very
wicked old cat got out of somebody's car just as I did, and I could feel
her beady eyes boring into my back all the way up the staircase."
"Do you mean Aunt Hannah?"
"Yes, I do! What does she mean by coming here at such an unearthly
hour? Don't go out into the box, Jim. She can see you from the
orchestra. I'll wager that her opera glasses have been sweeping the
house every second since she saw me!"
"If she sees me she won't talk," he said, coolly. "I'm one of her
exempts----"
"Wait, Jim! What are you going to do?"
"Let her see us both. I tell you she never talks about me, or anybody
with whom I happen to be. It's the best way to avoid gossip, Elena----"
"I don't want to risk it, Jim! Please don't! I'm in abject terror of
that woman----"
But Desboro had already stepped out to the box, and his keen, amused
eyes very soon discovered the levelled glasses of Mrs. Hammerton.
"Come here, Elena!"
"Had I better?"
"Certainly. I want her to see you. That's it! That's enough. She won't
say a word about you now."
Mrs. Clydesdale shrank back into the dim, rosy half-light of the box;
Desboro looked down at Mrs. Hammerton and smiled; then rejoined his
flushed companion.
"Don't worry; Aunt Hannah's fangs are extracted for this evening. Elena,
you are looking pretty enough to endanger the record of an aged saint!
There goes that meaningless overture! What is it you have to say to me?"
"Why are you so brusque with me, Jim?"
"I'm not. But I don't want the Barkleys and their guests to find us here
together."
"Betty knows I care for you----"
"Oh, Lord!" he said impatiently. "You always did care for anything that
is just out of reach when you stand on tip-toe. You always were that
way, Elena. When we were free to see each other you would have none of
me."
She was looking down while he spoke, smoothing one silken knee with her
white-gloved hand. After a moment, she lifted her head. To his surprise,
her eyes were brilliant with unshed tears.
"You don't love me any more, do you, Jim?"
"I--I have--it is about as it always will be with me. Circumstances have
altered things."
"_Is_ that all?"
He thought for a moment, and his eyes grew sombre.
"Jim! Are you going to marry somebody?" she said suddenly.
He looked up with a startled laugh, not entirely agreeable.
"Marry? No."
"Is there any girl you want to marry?"
"No. God forbid!"
"Why do you say that? Is it because of what you know about
marriages--like mine?"
"Probably. And then some."
"There are happy ones."
"Yes, I've read about them."
"But there really are, Jim."
"Mention one."
She mentioned several among people both knew. He smiled. Then she said,
wearily:
"There are plenty of decent people and decent marriages in the world.
The people we play with are no good. It's only restlessness, idleness,
and discontent that kills everything among people of our sort. I know
I'm that way, too. But I don't believe I would be if I had married you."
"You are mistaken."
"Why? Don't you believe any marriage can be happy?"
"Elena, have you ever heard of a honeymoon that lasts? Do you know how
long any two people can endure each other without merciful assistance
from a third? Don't you know that, sooner or later, any two people ever
born are certain to talk each other out--pump each other dry--love each
other to satiation--and ultimately recoil, each into the mysterious
seclusion of its own individuality, from whence it emerged temporarily
in order that the human race might not perish from the earth!"
"What miserable lesson have you learned to teach you such a creed?" she
asked. "I tell you the world is full of happy marriages--full of
honoured husbands and beloved wives, and children worshipped and
adored----"
"Children, yes, they come the nearest to making the conventional
contract endurable. I wish to God you had some!"
"Jim!"
He said, almost savagely: "If you _can_, and _don't_, you'll make a hell
for yourself with any man, sooner or later--mark my words! And it isn't
worth while to enact the hypocrisy of marriage with nothing more than
legal license in view! Why bother with priest or clergyman? That
contract won't last. And it's less trouble not to make one at all than
to go West and break one."
"Do you know you are talking very horridly to me?" she said.
"Yes--I suppose I am. I've got to be going now, anyway----"
As he spoke, the glittering house became dark; the curtain opened upon a
dim scene of shadowy splendour, into which, exquisite and bewitchingly
immortal as any goddess in the heavenly galaxy, glided Farrar, in the
shimmering panoply of _Ariane_.
[Illustration: "Desboro stood staring down at the magic picture. Mrs.
Clydesdale, too, had risen"]
Desboro stood staring down at the magic picture. Mrs. Clydesdale, too,
had risen. Below them the beauty of Farrar's matchless voice possessed
the vast obscurity, searching the darkness like a ray of crystal light.
One by one the stone crypts opened, disclosing their tinted waterfalls
of jewels.
"I've got to go," he whispered. "Your people will be arriving."
They moved silently to the door.
"Jim?"
"Yes."
"There _is_ no other woman; is there?"
"Not now."
"Oh! _Was_ there?"
"There might have been."
"You mean--to--to marry?"
"No."
"Then--I suppose I can't help _that_ sort. Men are--that way. Was it
that girl at Silverwood?"
"No," he said, lying.
"Oh! Who was that girl at Silverwood?"
"A business acquaintance."
"I hear she is unusually pretty."
"Yes, very."
"You found it necessary to be at Silverwood when she was there?"
"Once or twice."
"It is no longer necessary?"
"No longer necessary."
"So you won't see her again?"
"No."
"I'm glad. It hurt, Jim. Some people I know at Willow Lake saw her. They
said she was unusually beautiful."
"Elena," he said, "will you kindly come to your senses? I'm not going to
marry anybody; but that doesn't concern you. I advise you to attend to
your own life's business--which is to have children and bring them up
more decently than the present generation are being brought up in this
fool of a town! If nothing else will make your husband endurable,
children will come nearest to it----"
"Jim--please----"
"For heaven's sake, don't cry!" he whispered.
"I--won't. Dear, don't you realise that you are all I have in the
world----"
"We haven't got each other, I tell you, and we're not going to have each
other----"
"Yes--but don't take anybody else--marry anyone----"
"I won't. Control yourself!"
"Promise me!"
"Yes, I do. Go forward into the box; those people will be arriving----"
"Do you promise?"
"Yes, if you want me to. Go forward; nobody can see you in the dark.
Good-bye----"
"Good-bye, dear. And thank you----"
He coolly ignored the upturned face; she caught his hand in a flash of
impatient passion, then, with a whispered word, turned and went forward,
mistress of herself again, to sit there for an hour or two and witness a
mystery that has haunted the human heart for aeons, unexpressed.
On the fifth day, Desboro remained indoors and wrote business letters
until late in the afternoon.
Toward evening he telephoned to Mrs. Quant to find out whether
everything was being done to render Miss Nevers's daily sojourn at
Silverwood House agreeable.
He learned that everything was being done, that the young lady in
question had just departed for New York, and, furthermore, that she had
inquired of Mrs. Quant whether Mr. Desboro was not coming soon to
Silverwood, desiring to be informed because she had one or two business
matters on which to consult him.
"Hold the wire," he said, and left it for a few moments' swift pacing to
and fro. Then he came again to the telephone.
"Ask Miss Nevers to be kind enough to write me about the matters she has
in mind, because I can not leave town at present."
"Yes, Mr. James. Are you well, sir?"
"Perfectly."
"Thank you, sir. If you feel chilly like at night----"
"But I don't. Good-night!"
He dressed, dined at the club, and remained there reading the papers
until he had enough of their complacent ignorance. Then he went home,
still doggedly refusing to attempt to analyse the indirect message from
Jacqueline.
If it had any significance other than its apparent purport, he grimly
refused to consider even such a possibility. And, deadly weary at last,
he fell asleep and slept until late in the morning.
It was snowing hard when he awoke. His ablutions ended, he rang for
breakfast. On his tray was a note from the girl in blue; he read it and
dropped it into his pocket, remembering the fireplace sacrifice of a few
days ago at Silverwood, and realising that such frivolous souvenirs were
beginning to accumulate again.
He breakfasted without interest, unfolded the morning paper, glanced
over the headlines, and saw that there was a little more murder,
divorce, and boot-licking than he cared for, laid it aside, and lighted
a cigarette. As he dropped the burnt match on the tray, he noticed under
it another letter which he had overlooked among the bills and
advertisements composing the bulk of the morning mail.
For a little while he held the envelope in his hand, not looking at it;
then, with careless deliberation, he cut it open, using a paper knife,
and drew out the letter. As he slowly opened it his hands shook in spite
of him.
"MY DEAR MR. DESBORO: I telephoned Mrs. Quant last night and
learned that she had given you my message over the wire only a few
minutes before; and that you had sent word you could not come to
Silverwood, but that I might communicate with you by letter.
"This is what I had to say to you: There is a suit of armour here
which is in a very bad condition. It will be expensive to have it
repaired by a good armourer. Did you wish to include it in the
sale as it is, or have it repaired? It is No. 41 in the old list;
No. 69 in my catalogue, now almost completed and ready for the
printer. It is that rather unusual suit of black plate-mail,
called 'Brigandine Armour,' a XV century suit from Aragon; and the
quilted under-jacket has been ruined by moths and has gone
completely to pieces. It is a very valuable suit.
"Would you tell me what to do?
"Very sincerely yours,
"JACQUELINE NEVERS."
An hour later he still sat there with the letter in his hand, gazing at
nothing. And until the telephone beside him rang twice he had not
stirred.
"Who is it?" he asked finally.
At the reply his face altered subtly, and he bowed his head to listen.
The distant voice spoke again, and:
"Silverwood?" he asked.
"Yes, here's your party."
An interval filled with a vague whirring, then:
"Mr. Desboro?"
"Yes. Good-morning, Miss Nevers."
"Good-morning. Have you a note from me?"
"Yes, thank you. It came this morning. I was just reading it--again."
"I thought I ought to consult you in such a matter."
"Certainly."
"Then--what are your wishes?"
"My wishes are yours."
"I cannot decide such a matter. It will be very expensive----"
"If it is worth the cost to you, it is worth it to me."
"I don't know what you mean. The burden of decision lies with you this
time, doesn't it?"
"With us both. Unless you wish me to assume it."
"But it _is_ yours to assume!"
"If you wish, then. But I may ask your opinion, may I not?"
There was a silence, then:
"Whatever you do I approve. I have no--opinion."
"You do not approve _all_ I do."
The rejoinder came faintly: "How do you know?"
"I--wrote to you. Do you approve my writing to you?"
"Yes. If _you_ do."
"And do you approve of what I wrote?"
"Not of _all_ that you wrote."
"I wrote that I would not see you again."
"Yes."
"Do you think that is best?"
"I--do not think about it."
He said: "That, also, is best. Don't think of it at all. And about the
armour, do exactly what you would do if you were in my place. Good-bye."
"Mr. Desboro----"
"Yes."
"Could you wait a moment? I am trying to think----"
"Don't try, Jacqueline!"
"Please wait--for me!"
There was a silence; a tiny spot of blood reddened his bitten lip before
she spoke again; then:
"I wished to tell you something. I knew why you wrote. Is it right for
me to tell you that I understood you? I wanted to write and say so,
and--say something else--about how I felt--but it seems I can't.
Only--we could be friends more easily now--if you wish."
"You have not understood!" he said.
"Yes, I have, Mr. Desboro. But we _can_ be friends?"
"Could you be _mine_, after what I have written?"
"I thought I couldn't, at first. But that day was a--long one. And when
a girl is much alone she becomes very honest with herself. And it all
was entirely new to me. I didn't know what I ought to have done about
it--only what I wished to do."
"And--what is that, Jacqueline?"
"Make things as they were--before----"
"Before I wrote?"
"Yes."
"All up to that time you wish might be again as it was? _All?_"
No answer.
"All?" he repeated.
"Don't ask me. I don't know--I don't know what I think any more."
"How deeply do you suppose I feel about it?"
"I did not know you felt anything very deeply."
There was a long pause, then her voice again:
"You know--you need not be afraid. I did not know enough to be until you
wrote. But I understand, now."
He said: "It will be all right, then. It will be quite all right,
Jacqueline. I'll come up on the noon train."
* * * * *
His car met him at the station. The snow had melted and the wet macadam
road glittered under a declining winter sun, as the car rolled smoothly
away through the still valleys of Westchester.
Mrs. Quant, in best bib and tucker and lilac ribbons, welcomed him, and
almost wept at his pallor; but he shrugged impatiently and sprang up
the low steps. Here the necessity for self-control stopped him short on
his way to the armoury. He turned to Mrs. Quant with an effort:
"Is everything all right?"
"No, Mr. James. Phibby broke a cup and saucer Saturday, and there is new
kittens in the laundry--which makes nine cats----"
"Oh, all right! Miss Nevers is here?"
"Yes, sir--in the liberry--which ain't been dusted right by that Phibby
minx----"
"Tell Phoebe to dust it!" he said sternly. "Do you suppose Miss Nevers
cares to handle dirty books!" His restless glance fell on the clock:
"Tell Farris I'm here and that Miss Nevers and I will lunch as soon as
it's served. And say to Miss Nevers that I'll be down in a few minutes."
He turned and mounted the stairs to his room, and found it full of
white, clove-scented carnations.
Mrs. Quant came panting after him:
"Miss Nevers, she cut them in the greenhouse, and told me to put 'em in
your room, sayin' as how clove pinks is sanitary. Would you--would you
try a few m-m-magic drops, Mr. James, sir? Miss Nevers takes 'em
regular."
"Oh, Lord!" he exclaimed, laughing in sheer exuberance of spirits. "I'll
swallow anything you like, only hurry!"
She dosed him with great content, he, both hands in soap-suds, turning
his head to receive the potion. And at last, ablutions finished, he ran
down the stairs, checked himself, and managed to stroll leisurely
through the hall and into the library.
She was writing; looked up, suddenly pale under her golden crown of
hair; and the red lips quivered, but her eyes were steady.
She bent her head again, both hands abandoned to him, sitting in silence
while his lips rested against her fingers.
"Is all well with you, Jacqueline?"
"Yes. And with you?"
"All is well with me. I missed you--if you know what that really means."
"Did you?"
"Yes. Won't you even look at me?"
"In a moment. Do you see all these piles of manuscript? All that is your
new catalogue--and mine," she added, with a faint smile; but her head
remained averted.
"You wonderful girl!" he said softly. "You wonderful girl!"
"Thank you. It was a labor of--pleasure." Colour stole to the tips of
her ears. "I have worked--worked--every minute since----"
"Yes."
"Really, I have--every minute. But somehow, it didn't seem to tire me.
To-day--now--I begin to feel a little tired." She rested her cheek on
one hand, still looking away from him.
"I took a peep into the porcelain and jade rooms," she said, "just a
glance over what lies before me. Mrs. Quant very kindly gave me the
keys. Did you mind?"
"Do I mind anything that it pleases you to do? What did you find in the
jade room?"
She smiled: "Jadeite, of course; and lapis and crystals--the usual."
"Any good ones?"
"Some are miracles. I don't really know, yet; I gave just one swift
glance and fled--because you see I haven't finished in the armoury, and
I ought not to permit myself the pleasures of curiosity."
"The pleasures of curiosity and of anticipation are the only real ones.
Sages have said it."
She shook her head.
"Isn't it true?" he insisted.
She looked up at him at last, frank-eyed but flushed:
[Illustration: "'Which is the real pleasure?' she asked"]
"Which is the real pleasure," she asked, "seeing each other, or
anticipating the--the resumption of the entente cordial?"
"You've smashed the sages and their philosophy," he nodded, studying the
exquisite, upturned features unsmilingly. "To be with you is the
greater--content. It's been a long time, hasn't it?"
She nodded thoughtfully: "Five days and a half."
"You--counted them, too?"
"Yes."
This wouldn't do. He rose and walked over to the fire, which needed a
log or two; she turned and looked after him with little expression in
her face except that the blue of her eyes had deepened to a lilac tint,
and the flush on her cheeks still remained.
"You know," she said, "I didn't mean to take you from any business in
New York--or pleasures----"
He shuddered slightly.
"Did I?" she asked.
"No."
"I only wished you to come--when you had time----"
"I know, Jacqueline. Don't show me your soul in every word you utter."
"What?"
He turned on his heel and came back to her, and she shrank a little, not
knowing why; but he came no nearer than her desk.
[Illustration: "'The thing to do,' he said ... 'is for us both to keep
very busy'"]
"The thing to do," he said, speaking with forced animation and at
random, "is for us both to keep very busy. I think I'll go into
farming--raise some dinky thing or other--that's what I'll do. I'll go
in for the country squire business--that's what I'll do. And I'll have
my neighbours in. I'm never here long enough to ask 'em. They're a funny
lot; they're all right, though--deadly respectable. I'll give a few
parties--ask some people from town, too. Betty Barkley could run the
conventional end of it. And you'd come floating in with other unattached
girls----"
"You want _me_!"
He said, astonished: "Well, why on earth do you suppose I'm taking the
trouble to ask the others?"
"You want _me_--to come--where your friends----"
"Don't you care to?"
"I--don't know." The surprise of it still widened her eyes and parted
her lips a little. She looked up at him, perplexed, encountered
something in his eyes which made her cheeks redden again.
"What would they think?" she asked.
"Is there anything to think?"
"N-no. But they don't know who I am. And I have nobody to vouch for me."
"You ought to have a companion."
"I don't want any----"
"Of course; but you ought to have one. Can you afford one?"
"I don't know. I don't know what they--they cost----"
"Let me fix that up," he said, with animation. "Let me think it out. I
know a lot of people--I know some indigent and respectable old terrors
who ought to fill the bill and hold their tongues as long as their
salary is paid----"
"Oh, please don't, Mr. Desboro!"
He seated himself on the arm of her chair:
"Jacqueline, dear, it's only for your sake----"
"But I _did_ understand your letter!"
"I know--I know. I just want to see you with other people. I just want
to have them see you----"
"But I don't need a chaperon. Business women are understood, aren't
they? Even women whom you know go in for house decoration, and cigarette
manufacturing, and tea rooms, and hats and gowns."
"But they were socially known before they went in for these things. It's
the way of the world, Jacqueline--nothing but suspicion when
intelligence and beauty step forward from the ranks. And what do you
suppose would happen if a man of my sort attempts to vouch for any
woman?"
"Then don't--please don't try! I don't care for it--truly I don't. It
was nice of you to wish it, Mr. Desboro, but--I'd rather be just what I
am and--your friend."
"It can't be," he said, under his breath. But she heard him, looked up
dismayed, and remained mute, crimsoning to the temples.
"This oughtn't to go on," he said, doggedly.
She said: "You have not understood me. I am different from you. You are
not to blame for thinking that we are alike at heart; but, nevertheless,
it is a mistake. I can be what I will--not what I once seemed to be--for
a moment--with you--" Her head sank lower and remained bowed; and he saw
her slender hands tightening on the arm of the chair.
"I--I've got to be honest," she said under her breath. "I've got to
be--in every way. I know it perfectly well, Mr. Desboro. Men seem to be
different--I don't know why. But they seem to be, usually. And all I
want is to remain friends with you--and to remember that we are friends
when I am at work somewhere. I just want to be what I am, a business
woman with sufficient character and intelligence to be your friend
quietly--not even for one evening in competition with women belonging to
a different life--women with wit and beauty and charm and savoir
faire----"
"Jacqueline!" he broke out impulsively. "I want you to be my guest
here. Won't you let me arrange with some old gorgon to chaperon you? I
can do it! And with the gorgon's head on your moral shield you can
silence anybody!"
He began to laugh; she sat twisting her fingers on her lap and looking
up at him in a lovely, distressed sort of way, so adorably perplexed and
yet so pliable, so soft and so apprehensive, that his laughter died on
his lips, and he sat looking down at her in silence.
After a while he spoke again, almost mechanically:
"I'm trying to think how we can best be on equal terms, Jacqueline. That
is all. After your work is done here, I want to see you here and
elsewhere--I want you to come back at intervals, as my guest. Other
people will ask you. Other people must be here, too, when you are. I
know some who will accept you on your merits--if you are properly
chaperoned. That is all I am thinking about. It's fairer to you."
But even to himself his motive was not clear--only the rather confused
idea persisted that women in his own world knew how to take care of
themselves, whatever they chose to do about it--that Jacqueline would
stand a fairer chance with herself, and with him, whatever his
intentions might really be. It would be a squarer deal, that was all.
She sat thinking, one slim forefinger crook'd under her chin; and he saw
her blue eyes deep in thought, and the errant lock curling against her
cheek. Then she raised her head and looked at him:
"Do you think it best?"
"Yes--you adorable little thing!"
She managed to sustain his gaze:
"Could you find a lady gorgon?"
"I'm sure I can. Shall I?"
"Yes."
A moment later Farris announced luncheon. A swarm of cats greeted them
at the door, purring and waiving multi-coloured tails, and escorted them
to the table, from whence they knew came the delectable things
calculated to satisfy the inner cat.